In George's Eyes
by Jedi Goat
Summary: AU OotP. After the Quidditch injury that forever changed his life, George struggles to rebuild. Maybe laughter alone can't bring back their old life, but you can bet he and Fred will try anyway. UPDATED April 3, 2011.
1. Unwell

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: This is an Alternate Universe fic set during the time frame of OotP. Therefore, Deathly Hallows _does not happen. _:D

**02/04/11 **– Now this epic 90,000-some words is part of my Fanfic100, prompt _087 – Life_, and has now been fully re-written and edited. Though the general plot is still the same, expect the refurbishment of a few scenes, the addition of a few more, and a couple complete re-writes of chapters simply because they annoyed me. It's a lot more awesome now, believe me. :D (If you are still looking for the old version, fear not: it's now uploaded on my livejournal, jedigoat)

**20/08/11** – Many thanks to professor lazyass, who made an awesome graphic for this story! It can be found here: likeamanatee(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/8637542191/in-georges-eyes-by-jedi-goat-he-heard-the-door.

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**Chapter 1 - Unwell**

_"I'm not crazy; I'm just a little unwell_

_I know that right now you can't tell_

_But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see_

_A different side of me_

_I'm not crazy, I'm just a little impaired_

_I know that right now you don't care_

_But soon enough you're gonna think of me_

_As how I used to be … me."_

_-Unwell, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

It was the Monday after the season's opening Hogwarts Quidditch match, and news of the game filled the castle's wintry corridors. There was all the usual banter: Gryffindors boasting their victory, Slytherins grumbling, and all students excitedly retelling the events of the match by rote between lessons.

Normally, seventh years Fred and George Weasley would be right in the thick of the celebrations. As the Gryffindor team's star Beaters, they would take both congratulations and death threats in stride, and the two would be the first to agree to a wild common room party. In the post-game fervour as well as in the day-to-day proceedings of what passed as "normal" at Hogwarts, the Weasley twins were known for being outgoing, laidback and, above all, crazy, fun-loving pranksters.

All of that was different today.

This afternoon, as seventeen-year-old George Weasley made his way to Charms class, the chatter buzzing in his mind was only a source of infuriation. He fervently wished that they would all just shut up about it and leave him alone – but they wouldn't: he felt the eyes of the other students on the back of his head as he passed, and it unnerved him beyond all else. If the other students thought it unnatural that the Weasley shouldered past them coldly, without so much as a glance of acknowledgement, well, he was beyond caring.

For the first time in his life, George found himself wishing that he wasn't a Weasley twin. Everyone at school knew Fred and George, the pranksters, identical down to the last freckle – but they weren't identical, he refuted, not any more. As a Weasley twin, he received so much attention, and that was the last thing he wanted right now. He longed to fade into the shadows and be a nobody for once; because with the spotlight on him, someone was sure to find out…

George struggled to bring himself back to the present as he wearily padded into the Charms classroom. _It's going to be all right,_ he tried to reassure himself, shaking his head slightly to discourage the downward spiral of his current thoughts and only earning a dull pulse between his ears for the effort. _Two more lessons and the day's over._

Another day of hiding would be over.

George headed over to his usual seat in the back of the class, carefully sidestepping the other desks strewn in his path. Fred, Angelina, and Alicia were already there; they paused their animate chatter as he approached.

"We wondered if you were going to show up," Angelina said, her brusque tone barely disguising the note of concern in her voice. "You weren't at breakfast or at lunch. What happened?"

"I wasn't hungry," George mumbled, not looking at her. Instead, he stooped and rummaged in his bag for his Charms homework.

"You've been in and out of lessons all day," observed Alicia hesitantly. "Are you _sure_ you're feeling all right, George?"

"I'm fine!" He slammed his textbook down onto his desk a bit harder than he'd intended, hearing the steady thump resound throughout the milling classroom. He knew they were all worried about the injury he'd received in Saturday's match, but he fervently wished they would just leave him alone already. Their attentions only made the situation more painful, twisting a knife deeper into the wound in his heart. A wound he knew nothing in the world, least of all their well-meant words, could heal. Self-consciously, George found himself rubbing the bandages layering the base of his skull.

"Does it hurt much?" murmured Alicia sympathetically.

"Yes," he snapped, just to make them stop bothering him. It was a lie; it didn't hurt, not on the outside, in any case. George lowered his hand.

At that moment, the bell's welcome chime interrupted before they could interrogate him further. George gave a heavy sigh as Angelina and Alicia departed in a scuffle of motion to return to their seats, and in the momentary silence he put his head in his hands. Distantly he could hear Professor Flitwick squeaking out the roll call through the pounding in his head.

"That's not what's bothering you, is it?" Fred murmured out of the corner of his mouth. He had known George had lied; they knew each other too bloody well for that. The rest of the school suspected – sometimes jokingly, sometimes not so much – that the two had some sort of psychic bond to be able to finish each other's thoughts so well, but George knew that was a lie. In fact, he relished that falsehood, for he wasn't sure he could bear it if Fred perceived his current tumultuous state of mind.

George nodded without looking up at his brother. He knew Fred was only trying to help him, just like the rest of them – but he didn't understand what had really happened. He couldn't know; George balked at the very idea, as it made an unknown icy fear tighten in his chest. The feeling settled in his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He knew what it was.

Loneliness.

"Fred Weasley?"

The silence shattered as Flitwick reached the end of his list, and for a welcome instant George was jolted from the horror his mind conjured. It was only for a moment, however, and unconsciously his hand drifted to the back of his neck again, his fingers irritably chafing the layer of plasters itching the back of his skull. _Damn headache._

"George Weasley?"

"Here," George muttered unenthusiastically.

"Today we shall practice an advanced charm, the Bubblehead Charm," Professor Flitwick announced in his cheery, high voice. "Now, the wand movement is very important ... watch me."

Silence; there was a small pop as Flitwick performed the spell, and a smattering of applause from the students. George still didn't look up, now massaging his temples, his teeth tightly clenched in a vain attempt to dispel the ire pulsing at his head, as if a hammer was steadily drumming against his skull. This bloody headache was doing nothing to improve his dismal mood...

"Now you may all try! You may work on the charm in groups!" Flitwick squeaked out. Students hurried to join their friends in a sudden bustle of clattering chairs, shouts, and tramping footsteps. George alone hadn't moved a muscle; he was abruptly feeling rather ill and, swallowing hard, reflected that maybe it hadn't been worth the effort to come to Charms class anyway.

Angelina and Alicia announced their return with a scraping of chairs. "Hey," said Angelina. Then, a moment later, "Fred, stop flourishing your wand so much! You're going to take out someone's eye!"

"Sorry," Fred said sheepishly.

"George, are you even going to try the spell?" she demanded incredulously, seeing he didn't even have his wand ready.

George shook his head wearily, wincing at the motion. "No – I don't feel so good. I've got a headache." _At least that bit is true_, he reflected wryly.

Angelina's tone softened slightly. "Don't let the Slytherins get you down, George. Madam Pomfrey said you'll be fully recovered in a few days." George didn't respond to that, and she addressed the group as a whole: "In any case, I want to see everyone in shape for practice Thursday."

"Come on, Angelina!" complained Fred. "Our next match is months away! Can't you give a man a break?"

"We can't let ourselves get out of shape," she declared sharply. "I've already scheduled the practices for the next month, and you'd better be there!"

All this talk of Quidditch was making George feel ill once more, so he tuned out Fred and Angelina's continued argument. He didn't want to dwell on the memory of Saturday's match. Even the bare thought of Quidditch stirred a nasty voice at the back of his mind, asking if he'd ever be able to play again...

_I'm not..._

"George." Alicia's quiet voice broke into his thoughts; George gave a start and turned to her. He could feel the others' eyes boring into him as she continued, softly and cautiously, "Why are your eyes so red? Have you been – _crying_?"

George jerked back. _Of all things_ – he did not want everyone staring at his eyes.

"That's none of your business!" he snapped, the last thread of his self-control drawn to the breaking point. "Why can't you all just leave me alone? Is that _really _too much to ask?"

With that, he snatched up his schoolbag and stalked out of the classroom, ignorant to the wide-eyed stares left in his wake.

_I'm not George Weasley anymore._

**·:·**

Fred stared after his twin, mouth open in wordless shock. Sure, George had seemed a bit different – moody, more aloof – ever since the match, but he would never have expected _this_.

At first, Fred had naturally associated George's odd mood with his response to being cooped up in the hospital wing too long; they both hated the atmosphere of hospitals, with the plain white-washed walls, a distinct smell of chemicals and cleanliness, and ever-fussy healers. He'd let it lie and assumed that after George's release from Madam Pomfrey last night, he'd perk up immediately. Heck, Fred had imagined George would even _enjoy_ all the attention he was getting – flaunting his battle wounds seemed the next natural thing Fred would do, anyway.

However, George's demeanour hadn't improved; _if anything,_ Fred thought, _it's gotten worse_. He couldn't remember George ever laughing or even cracking a joke since Saturday, never mind exerting the effort to do more than fake a smile in his twin's presence.

_In fact... _Now that Fred really thought about it, it seemed George had been avoiding him all day, though for the life of him he couldn't understand why. The weight of that unknown notion settled over his shoulders and he glanced around the cheery, laughing classroom, though he himself was suddenly immune to that warmth. A few seats over, Lee Jordan's face was magnified beneath the shape of an overturned fishbowl ensconcing his head, his eyes overlarge and his lips moving like those of a large fish. Patricia Stimpson shrieked with laughter, but Fred didn't have the heart to join in as a chill ran through him. No one else was even aware of their fellow classmate's turmoil.

_George... _Now Fred cursed himself for ignoring the warning signs: there was something wrong with his brother, something _seriously wrong_ if George's current behaviour indicated anything. And he, like a great prat, hadn't done a thing about it. There was only one thing a Weasley twin could do in a situation like this.

"I'm going after him." Fred stood up, shouldering his bag and shovelling his Charms materials into it with one hand. The Bubblehead Charm could wait; he was more concerned about his brother at the moment. He met the stares of his friends – Angelina biting her lip, anxiety in Alicia's wide eyes.

As he made to leave, Angelina caught his wrist and squeezed it slightly. "If anyone, you can find out what's going on."

"Yeah." Fred swallowed hard, picking up the textbook that George had abandoned. "I just hope you're right."

_George ... what's happened to you?_

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	2. Bent

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**03/04/11 **– Updated.

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**Chapter 2 - Bent**

_"Can you help me I'm bent_

_I'm so scared that I'll never_

_Get put back together."_

_-Bent, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

That quiet Monday afternoon, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in the library, using their free class time to finish their Defence Against the Dark Arts homework. Freshly inked scrolls tottered on top of heavy leather-bound books upon their laden table; Hermione neatly finished her third roll of parchment and set aside her quill as Ron gawped at her over his messy introduction. Meanwhile Harry pushed his glasses further up on his nose, leaning closer to squint at his fine script. Already his brain was going rather fuzzy from repetitively writing the same meaningless drivel.

"Umbridge is just evil," muttered Ron darkly as he flipped through his textbook, searching for some fact or figure to support his thesis. "Two essays. _Two_ essays! Due _tomorrow_!"

Harry waited for Hermione's usual rebuttal ("You could've finished it all this weekend if you were focused on school work as much as on Quidditch!") but their bushy-haired friend wasn't paying any attention. Harry glanced up, bemused, and found Hermione staring at the bookshelves across from them with her brow furrowed slightly.

"What is it?" asked Harry, following her gaze and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. The library was silent around them; most students were in class, and only the occasional browsing of Madam Pince through the high shelves, dusting here, replacing a book there, disrupted the stillness.

"I thought I just saw..." Hermione shook her head distractedly. "I thought I saw one of your brothers, Ron."

"Fred 'n' George never come in here," Ron stated without looking up. "Ugh, how does that old bat expect us to do all this in one night?"

"I'm already finished," simpered Hermione, as if that concluded the matter. Harry smirked, but disguised it by quickly ducking his head over his work again.

"Hey there."

At that moment, to the fifth years' gapes of surprise, none other than Fred Weasley slid into the empty seat next to Ron, pushing aside several crumpled drafts of parchment to lean his elbows on the tabletop.

Harry grinned. "Good thing you weren't betting then, Ron."

Ron just stared open-mouthed at Fred. "Wha – what are _you_ doing here?"

"Relax, I'm only missing Charms," Fred said, now glancing around with something like curiosity at the tall shelves all around them, each stuffed with ancient tomes. "Hmm," he remarked almost to himself, "never knew there were so many books in here..."

"No," Ron recovered enough to almost glare at him, "what are you doing in the _library_?"

"Problem with that?" Fred raised an eyebrow succinctly.

"No – it's just that—"

Fred ignored Ron's spluttering, instead turning to Hermione and Harry. "Have you, by any chance, seen George?"

"Isn't he usually with you?" inquired Harry.

The change in Fred's mood was instantaneous, as though storm clouds converged in his eyes. "He's been acting really strange since – you know," Fred lowered his voice to a murmur, sighing heavily. "He won't talk to me – or anyone else, for that matter. And he's been disappearing all day, not showing up for classes or meals."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were flabbergasted; they'd never seen one of the twins look so ... depressed. Fred rubbed wearily at his temples, suddenly looking much older than his seventeen years, and made to rise; "Well – if you see him –"

Harry cast a side-glance at Hermione; she bit her lip and addressed Fred nervously.

"Actually, I did just see someone come in. I didn't get a good look at him, per say, but he might've been George. He would've gone that way." She pointed toward the back of the library.

Fred stood up. At the silent signal the trio followed him down the winding rows of books, their Defence homework forgotten, peering down each rickety aisle for any sign of the elusive Weasley twin.

**·:·**

When George stormed out of his Charms class, he had only one thought in mind: to be alone. Unconsciously his feet carried him to the place he'd frequented so often today: the one place where he knew no one could find him. He pushed silently through the heavy oak door, taking a long drag of the musty air – there was something reassuring in that scent, in the quiet, that appeased the burning pain in his head. Silently, for once undisrupted, George wound his way through the room's maze to the shadows at the far back. He didn't really have a destination in mind but stopped after a moment, aware of only his own hitched breathing in the silence.

Thus assured to be uninterrupted, he allowed his book bag to fall with a _whump_ and settled with his knees curled to his chest beside it, leaning his heavy head on his arms.

No one would ever think of finding him in the library, of that George was certain. No one who even knew the slightest about the Weasley twins would ever connect them with the library's extensive collection of books or even schoolwork. Therefore, this, George reckoned, was one of his more brilliant ideas.

He rifled through his bag and pulled out his textbook, lazily flipping to a page at random. _There_ – now anyone who happened upon him would simply think he was studying.

Suddenly George frowned; this was his heavier History of Magic book. Where was Charms? He pawed through his stuff once more before remembering he must have left his textbook behind in the rush to leave class.

George cursed softly under his breath, leaning back against the shelf. He'd have to be a lot more careful if he didn't want anyone to suspect...!

He stiffened suddenly from his rueful muttering, hearing the echo of approaching footsteps. Maybe if he stayed completely still, the intruders would ignore him. Unfortunately, fate had it in for him today.

"George? What are you doing down there?"

_What's Ron doing here?_ George ground his teeth in irritation. _Why_ was everyone on his back today? All he wanted was to be left alone...! A sudden thought struck him, and he froze.

Had someone sent Ron looking for him?

If Ron was there, he reasoned, surely Harry and Hermione weren't far behind. The trio was nearly inseparable. The ghost of a smile flitted across George's face. Just like him and Fred; and with the amount of trouble the trio got up to, they rivalled even their schemes...

The smile vanished. George didn't want to think about Fred – he didn't want to face his brother, to face the truth that he had been so desperately feuding to push aside. By separating himself from Fred, he'd lost a part of himself; yet it would be worse to face him now and lose him altogether. They were different, now; shattered.

It hurt. He hurt. George felt lost and broken, and he knew some of his pieces were missing forever.

"George? Are you all right?" This time it was Fred's voice, soft in his ear.

George kicked at the ground with his heel, wishing at once that they would go away, yet a small part of him still lingered on the hope that Fred would stay. That together they would be Fred and George again, and laugh together; but he knew that couldn't happen now.

"No," he answered, his voice bitter yet truthful. No, nothing could fix what had been done to him.

"Er – you forgot this." George felt something pushed into his hands; it was his battered Charms textbook. His lips twitched, but he didn't smile.

Fred was still beside him, his earnest stare boring into his twin's face. "What's wrong? Please, George, tell me."

George wanted to tell him, to confide all his pain in his brother. But he couldn't, he knew he couldn't, and especially not with Ron and the others hovering around. He could tell they were listening in, breath bated, and it sparked his fury. Suddenly he had a fervent desire to swat them away like pesky flies.

So instead, George only shook his head.

"Please, George, we want to help you," begged Fred.

What got to George was that he said "we". As if the only reason he was there was because Ron, Harry, and Hermione were. It wasn't even any of their business. George looked up at them, but a door had closed behind his pale blue eyes.

"Leave me alone." His voice was pure ice; it didn't even sound like George anymore. But at this point he didn't care. He had snapped the last thread holding him to his old life and was spiralling away into darkness.

"Tell us what's going on, George," Fred tried again desperately. "I don't understand – maybe if I did –"

"There's a lot you don't understand!" George snarled, viciously swinging his bag onto his shoulder. He reached for the Charms textbook but found it missing.

"Give me back my book," he said coldly.

No response.

"Give it back, Fred! Now!" His twin pushed the book into his grasp and George tore it away, storming down the row. He bumped into Ron as he passed the trio. "What're you looking at?" he growled, and his brother backed off.

Leaving them once more helpless and bewildered in the dust, George ran away from the last remnants of the life he had once led.

_I'm sorry, Fred..._

_I can't._

_**·:·**  
_

Fred watched powerlessly as George stormed off for the second time that day. He'd been shut out again: he'd seen it in George's eyes, how he turned on Fred with frightening chill and shattered any hope of seeing him smile again. Whatever was bothering George – it was beginning to scare him. He seriously didn't know what to think anymore; George had always been with him, the more cautious one, always pulling him back when Fred went too far or let his blind rage get the better of him. George wasn't like that – George never lost his head. Not like this.

The notion was petrifying. The person in George's body wasn't his twin anymore – it was a vicious stranger.

_My God, Georgie, what's happened to you?_

Fred stood up and took his time walking over to Ron and his friends; it took him a moment to realize he was shaking.

Harry shook his head slowly. "That Bludger must've hit him pretty hard..."

"He's gone mental," Ron muttered, rubbing his shoulder where George had bumped into him.

"There's nothing wrong with him!" said Fred defensively. To himself he murmured, "He's just horribly upset ... I wish I knew _why_."

Hermione, who had been staring thoughtfully at Ron without seeming to see him, suddenly grasped his arm tightly. "That's _it_!"

"What?" asked Ron, wincing.

"Hang on ... I just have to check something ... but I think I know what's going on!"

At that moment, the bell rang, and with a surprised squeak Hermione ran off. "Don't wait up for me!" she called back to Harry and Ron.

Ron shook his head, bemused. "She must really be on to something, to risk missing Transfiguration..." He turned to Fred. "We'd best be off. See you." He paused, hesitating a moment, and then reached over to put a hand on Fred's shoulder. "Good luck solving this one, mate."

Fred nodded, unable to speak.

Harry and Ron walked off to their next class, casting the occasional uneasy glance back at him. Fred stayed behind pacing amid the library's dusty shelves, his brow furrowed in thought. One thing was for certain: he had to find out what was up with George. He had to try one more time to get through to his brother.

He didn't want to think of what would happen if he didn't.

Mind made up, Fred left the library in resolve to search the rest of the castle. He'd have to start looking all over again – he cursed not having asked Harry for use of the Marauder's Map earlier. In any case, maybe it was better the fifth years had left; with George clammed up the way he was, his twin was the only person with a chance of getting through his facade. If he could even manage that much.

Fred dismissed the idea of class as the halls once again thinned out around him. It was just History of Magic, anyway, and he seriously doubted George would have headed back there, after the Charms fiasco.

George probably went to the last place he'd thought Fred would look. Pausing, he scanned the first floor corridor thoughtfully, running the idea over in his mind. Other than the library, what was the last place he, in his right mind, would ever go?

And then an idea came to him: _Moaning Myrtle's bathroom!_

_To be continued..._

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Please review!_  
_


	3. Burning

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: Seriously, I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Maybe this chapter will shed some light on what's going on... D

**10/04/11 **– Rewrote almost this entire chapter, and now it's the longest yet. XD

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**Chapter 3 - Burning**

_"I believe the world is burning to the ground_

_Oh well, I guess we're gonna find out_

_Let's see how far we've come_

_I believe the world is coming to an end_

_Oh well, I guess we're gonna pretend_

_Let's see how far we've come."_

_-How Far We've Come, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

The last time George had been himself was that infamous Saturday. In his mind, Fred recalled the day's Quidditch game, replaying the scene through his head over and over, desperately trying to find some clue, some gesture out of the ordinary to unravel the mystery.

Tensions had been high in the castle, as always before a Gryffindor-Slytherin match up. All the usual Slytherin taunts and cheers from the other houses followed the Gryffindor team's march down to the pitch. As they traced the familiar path to the change rooms, the twins had been eagerly cajoling Ron, Gryffindor's new Keeper. Ron was already pale-faced and sickly-looking about the upcoming match, and Fred and George certainly weren't helping matters.

Upon their arrival in the locker room, they met up with the rest of the team, all seasoned players: Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and Harry. Since Oliver Wood had left two years previously, the captaincy fell to Angelina, and she reeled off a pep talk as they waited for the beginning of the game.

"Right then," she announced, pacing back and forth in front of them in her bold scarlet robes as the team fidgeted around her, listening to the growing roar of the crowd over their heads. Ron looked about to throw up. "It's been two years, but we're still the reigning house champions. We've got a _damn_ good team, so let's go out there and prove it."

Fred grinned slightly at that statement and glanced sideways at George, who shared the look. Last time they had faced Slytherin, they'd beaten them down soundly for the title of Quidditch Cup Champions. Even two years ago, that victory still kindled a fire in all of them: he could see it in the eyes of Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and Harry. And George.

"Now," Angelina said, pausing. "I've just heard Slytherin's changed their line-up to play some fifth years as their Beaters. I think their names were Crabbe and Goyle. We've never seen them play, so we'll just have to stick to our strategy for now."

"I can guess," Harry informed them flatly. "Those two are Malfoy's big cronies. They're in Malfoy's pocket because they can't think for themselves."

"So, the usual idiots," concluded Fred with a daring grin.

"Don't worry, we'll deal with them," added George, reading Angelina's mind. She smiled slightly.

"All right, you two, go out there and do what you do best. And that goes for all of you!" The Gryffindors echoed her statement with a roar of cheers; getting to their feet and shouldering their brooms, the team trooped out onto the pitch together.

The crowd was a wild sea of colors, spectators cheering and yelling. From the other side of the field came the Slytherins, decked out in green and silver. Madam Hooch stood at center field, and she waited as both teams approached her.

"Captains, shake hands," she ordered briskly, and Angelina shook hands with a big Slytherin who looked as if he were trying to break her fingers. Meanwhile, Fred and George sought out the new Slytherin players: two beefy boys who looked more like trolls than anything else. George raised an eyebrow at Fred, offering a stage-whisper.

"Think they even know how to fly?"

"I think, dear brother, we should be more worried about their sorry brooms – having to hold the weight of a troll and all."

Harry, right behind the twins, sniggered but quickly covered it with a cough. On the opposite side of center field, Malfoy was regarding them with his silvery eyes narrowed. Fred caught the Slytherin Seeker's glare and grinned, nudging George; he turned back to the Slytherin and crossed his eyes, sticking out his tongue, not really caring how immature the gesture looked. Malfoy wrinkled his nose and directed his stare elsewhere.

"And that proves all Slytherins have pointy sticks shoved up their asses," Fred concluded in a serious Percy imitation. George smirked, but Madam Hooch's voice intercepted their commentary:

"Now, mount your brooms!"

Dutifully, the two teams swung onto their brooms and faced off. There was a sharp tweet from Madam Hooch's whistle, and at once red and green shot into the air in a wild rush of colors.

The initial crazed fervour for the Quaffle evened out as Angelina shot off with the red ball under her arm for the Slytherin end. The Slytherin Chasers blazed after her, but to no avail: five seconds in and Gryffindor was ten points up. Fred found himself grinning wildly as he exchanged a high-five with Angelina as she zoomed past. Then his eyes went to the large Slytherin Beaters, who were drifting several feet above them, looking rather stupid to Fred as they stared at the proceedings without any real comprehension, bats dangling limply at their sides.

Fred snorted and was about to turn back to the play – Slytherin had possession now, but Alicia and Katie were closing in on their Chasers – when a flicker of green caught his eye. Malfoy had flown up next to Crabbe and Goyle and appeared to be shouting at them: he was gesticulating so wildly Fred amused himself with the thought that he'd fall straight off his broom, his face pink and his eyes narrowed. One of the Beaters nodded and, apparently satisfied, Malfoy wheeled his broom around and headed after where Harry was circling the other end of the pitch.

_What was that about? _Fred mused, but his wonderings were cut short as a groan went up from the Slytherin end: Katie had intercepted Adrian Pucey and now hurtled down the pitch with the Quaffle under her arm. It would be an open goal -!

WHAM!

Fred gave a start as a Bludger whistled past, courtesy of Crabbe or Goyle – he wasn't sure which, as his mind immediately went into instinctive overdrive: he threw himself flat over his broom as he raced the Bludger to Katie's side, whirling and swinging his bat down just in time to stop it from cracking her head open. He hovered a moment, chest heaving, as he watched the black ball's slow arc downward before it changed course and shot after Warrington of Slytherin instead.

Fred caught only a flicker of Katie's pale face before he flew off, a bit unsettled by the Slytherin Beaters' display of raw strength. He searched out George's flare of hair among the players flashing by, knowing he needed to warn him – but then he again saw Malfoy urgently addressing the Beaters, and Fred bit back a growl of irritation.

_All right, you want to play rough, punks?_ Fred grit his teeth and sought out the nearest Bludger. As it whistled past his ear he swung out, hard, with all the anger he could summon. The ball shot toward the green and silver huddle, and Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle dispersed in opposite directions. Fred gave a brash wave as Malfoy looked around and glared in his direction; then Fred wheeled about to prevent the Slytherins from roaring in on Ron's guarded hoops.

While he was distracted, he didn't see Goyle get hold of the second Bludger, or the smashing blow he deal to Alicia's head – or would have, if she hadn't ducked and rolled at the last instant. A whistle echoed across the pitch; Angelina waved her arms urgently for a time-out.

As the Gryffindors landed in a huddle on the wet, snow-encrusted pitch – panting, sweat streaking their faces from the sunlight blazing overhead – Angelina turned on her Beaters.

"Where _were_ you?" she snapped. "They could have killed Alicia back there, you know!"

Fred's nerves were already on edge from dealing with the erratic opposition, and he nearly yelled back, indignant. "It's impossible to keep an eye on them all the time! You saw it – they're wickedly strong!"

Angelina snapped back, "They're only amateurs. You have _five years_ of experience over them, so go out there and show it!" She turned to the rest of the team. "Come on. Let's show them what we're made of."

Fred's mind simmered with rage – against those bloody idiot Slytherins, against that smarmy git Malfoy, against _himself_ for feeling so goddamn useless. He caught George's sleeve as they made to take off again and managed a whisper.

"Watch out for Malfoy, all right? Seems he's telling them what to do."

"That git," said George calmly. "Figured they couldn't play on their own. Right then, I'll follow them, you take every chance to murder that little ferret."

Fred nodded, at once his tension easing a little to know they had a plan; he offered George a half-grin.

"With pleasure, I will."

Play resumed, as normal as a Gryffindor-Slytherin match usually was: numerous dirty scuffles passed between the rival teams, and Madam Hooch warned off each side with several penalties. The Slytherins scored four times in a row on Ron, whose shaken nerves were failing him; across the field the green and silver section of the crowd had started up a chant.

_"Weasley cannot save a thing,_

_He cannot block a single ring,_

_That's why all Slytherins sing:_

_Weasley is our King."_

Though Fred's face was burning as red as his hair from the Slytherins' taunts, he strived to keep his focus on one player, falling into a rhythm that allowed his mind to block out all else. He trailed Malfoy like a cat stalks a mouse, each time he started toward the Beaters, Fred shooting a deadly Bludger in his direction. At the third occurrence, Malfoy shot him a dark glare over his shoulder and sped off in the opposite direction, Fred glowering after him.

_Good riddance._

He huffed out a long breath and instinctively searched the sky above for George: there he was, circling Crabbe and Goyle at a distance. Once again the Slytherin Beaters were inert, watching the progress of plays with a sort of dazed look. Fred snorted: of course, they didn't have to make a move so long as their team had possession. Bloody gits.

But just then, down below, Fred perceived Angelina tugging the Quaffle free of Pucey's grasp and turning down the pitch, Alicia and Katie in V-formation on her heels. Fred glanced quickly up at the Slytherin Beaters; they hadn't moved, hardly even blinking as a sign that they'd noticed the turnover.

Unnerved, Fred searched out Malfoy and his heart leaped: Harry had just dropped into a dive from hundreds of feet up, his hand outstretched, and maybe it was just a trick of the light – a glimmer of gold flitted just beyond his fingertips. Malfoy was on his heels, but his old Nimbus was no match for the Gryffindor talent on the Firebolt.

A flicker of red in the corner of his eye, and George, breathless, had pulled up beside him; he'd sent a Bludger roaring straight at the motionless Beaters, driving them off to opposite sides. Fred grinned, mentally applauding his effort.

"Oi –" said George, squinting at something below them; Fred turned and his eyes grew stormy. Two of the Slytherin Chasers had dropped down from the game play, shoulder to shoulder, catching Harry between them. Caging him in thus, they jostled him, and the Snitch fled Harry's grasp.

"That's a foul!" George growled in outrage. But Madam Hooch was down at the other end of the pitch, surveying the Gryffindor Chasers roaring in on the abandoned Slytherin hoops.

Fred grit his teeth, several colourful curses running through his mind. They'd have to take things into their own hands. He looked over at his brother and, as he often did, saw his thoughts mirrored in George's eyes. He grinned; simultaneously they dived, each driving his broomstick to the limit, aiming for the two opposing Chasers.

The Slytherins couldn't have seen them; they were coming directly from above. But at that moment, the two Slytherins peeled off and rocketed back to their end, leaving Harry to shakily even out his course. The twins pulled up beside him, panting and windswept from their wild lunge.

"You all right, Potter?" Fred said, and even though his tone was gruff, a note of concern underlined his words. Harry nodded, wordless, one hand rubbing his bruised shoulder from where the burly Slytherins had knocked him. George, meanwhile, was looking after the fleeing Slytherins with his eyes slightly narrowed in bewilderment; he turned back to Fred.

"What d'you reckon...?"

Fred was about to add to that statement when a telltale whistling broke through his thoughts; he looked up and saw exactly why the Slytherins were leaving in such a rush.

"George! Look out –!"

There was a sickening crack as the first Bludger smashed into the back of George's head. Fred made a mad lunge for the second Bludger; Harry swerved out of the way as Fred swung out as hard as he could, his mind blank in a red rage. The grumbling Bludger hurtled off in the opposite direction.

The shock began to set into his mind as Fred turned back. George was slumped forward on his broom, clearly unconscious; he likely would have fallen if Harry hadn't instinctively grabbed his shoulder, holding him upright. There was blood dripping down the back of his scarlet robes, matting his hair.

Fred opened his mouth, but no sound came out; he felt as if the wind was knocked out of him, as if it had been the Bludger that collided with his chest, making his lungs tighten with cold, each breath haggard and difficult. _Oh, God ... George... _

In a daze, Fred could do nothing more than take a fistful of his brother's robes and guide him down toward the ground. Harry was at his side – though he was hardly aware of the pale-faced boy's presence or the hands helping him, as he was nearly trembling too much to keep himself on his own broom.

They hit the ground. Snow crackled beneath their feet; Fred staggered, his legs refusing to support him, clinging to his limp twin with both hands as somehow he and Harry got him untangled from his Cleansweep and on the ground, his lolling head propped in Fred's lap.

His head was spinning. George was so pale – freckles garish against his cheeks, the blood soaking Fred's hands as brilliant as his hair. He swallowed back, sickly. _No ... you can't be..._

Dimly Fred could hear Angelina screaming for a time-out as the others realized what had happened. The crowd was roaring, cresting into a single wave of noise that washed over Fred without him registering it. All Fred could see was his twin's face in front of him, deathly pale and flecked with his own blood. The rest of the team thudded to the ground around them; snow showered off their boots as they crowded around, voices anxiously imploring for answers: what happened? Is he all right? _Is he all right, Fred?_

Fred wasn't claustrophobic, but suddenly, vehemently, he wanted them all to go away, to give them both space to breathe. _George. George. Don't leave me, George._ He was hardly aware of the hoarse words passing his lips, or the quietly shaken voice of Harry next to him, offering explanations to the team.

"It was the Beaters ... Crabbe and Goyle..."

Through the daze, through the shock, those words penetrated his foggy mind as sharply as a knife. A new pain flamed up at his insides: the raw, blinding red anger. How could those two idiotic, bloody _amateur_ Beaters do this? Fred's fists clenched against George's shoulders, trembling.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" barked Madam Hooch, forcing her way into their ring. Her face paled and she held up a hand to restrain the others. "Stay back! This boy needs the hospital wing!" As she knelt next to George, her wand in hand, she pushed Fred aside as well. He nearly staggered into Alicia and Katie; his legs seemed unable to respond.

The Gryffindors parted to make room for Fred in their circle as Madam Hooch busied herself with conjuring a stretcher. He ignored them and their horrified whispers; his mind was whirling with his own terrified thoughts. He felt dizzy. This still couldn't be happening. Not to George. Not to them.

A noise broke through his consciousness. He looked around to see the Slytherin team huddled nearby, guffawing and pointing. All his fear dissolved as a spark rekindled the flame of rage flaring up inside him. How_ dare _they?

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd taken two steps toward the Slytherins, intending to wipe those smirks off their faces. He didn't have his wand handy but, hell, he didn't need it. Those bastards would pay, they would _pay_, damn it!

Angelina, realizing what was happening, took hold of his arm; her voice implored him urgently, terrified. "Fred, _no_!"

He wrenched his arm free with a low growl. "Let me go!" He whirled to stare murderously at the Slytherins, his feral scream echoing across the pitch.

"_You leave my family alone_!"

All the Slytherins stopped laughing to watch him, grinning. Malfoy stepped to the head of their group. "Or what, Weasley?" he taunted, his silver eyes narrowed with malice. "I mean, surely there's enough of you that you won't mind if we pick one brother off." The Slytherins sniggered in the background.

"Shut up," Fred hissed, balling his fists. His vision was a sea of angry red; he blinked rapidly, struggling to keep focusing on the Slytherins. God, he was going to_ murder _them...

"Are you going to cry?" Malfoy's mocking voice echoed in his ears.

Now Fred's face was as red as his hair, and his insides burned. Somewhere a strand of song echoed from the crowd: _Weasley is our King... _He'd never hungered to kill the Slytherins more than at this moment. He was ready to launch himself on them, but now all three Gryffindor Chasers were restraining him with all their strength; he could feel, distantly, their arms tugging at his robes, their pleas lost on his ears.

"You just leave my family alone, you hear me!" he managed to yell before someone clamped a hand over his mouth. Though Fred struggled violently, as the Slytherins turned their backs and moved off, a terrible despair began to settle over his shoulders. They were still alive. He couldn't do a bloody thing. And George...

"While you were bickering, Madam Hooch took George up to the hospital wing," Katie said fairly, noting at last he had gone still, though his muscles were still tensed.

Fred jerked his head sideways, forcing the hand off his face. "I want to see him!" he spat.

"Not until after the match!" ordered Angelina. Her voice softened slightly as she added, "There's nothing you can do for him now, Fred. And besides, with _no_ Beaters, they'll kill us out there."

Fred said nothing, glaring at her, his chest heaving. She didn't understand – the two of them were like halves of the same person. They were inseparable. Best friends. Brothers. And now...

Now...

Fred looked away, his insides twisting. He didn't want to be here without George; he needed to be with his brother, to know if he was all right. The image of him pale and still haunted his mind ... but Angelina did have a point.

Fred took a deep, unsteady breath. _We have to finish the match_, he told himself, trying futilely to believe it. George would want that. He would want them to win. For him.

"All right," Fred said grudgingly, recognizing defeat. He trudged through their circle – the Gryffindors backing away from him uneasily, as if afraid he would snap at them next. His lips twisted wryly, but he was in no humour to laugh about it. At last he shouldered his broomstick, casting a forlorn look at the one discarded beside it; the one whose rider wouldn't finish this match. Harry stood beside him awkwardly, his eyes downcast.

"Fred..."

Fred overrode him: regret, pity, responsibility, he didn't want to hear any of it now. "You'd better catch that Snitch soon, Potter," he said gruffly.

"I will," was all Harry said. Fred didn't stop to consider his expression as he mounted his broom and kicked off forcibly in a shower of slush, attempting to leave his spinning thoughts down on the ground below.

At least Harry kept his promise: only minutes later, the match ended, Gryffindor with 190 points and Slytherin with 50. But the customary celebrations felt sour with George's absence, and Fred resigned himself to wait, in the terrible silence, for news of his brother's condition.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Note: Anyone like to chance a guess on what's up with George? :3

Please review!


	4. All

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Thanks to all the reviewers who guessed, and here it is ... the big revelation!

**10/04/11 **- Neatening and edits.

* * *

**Chapter 4 - All**

_"Why don't you just go away_

_I can't seem to get my head straight_

_There's so much I need to say_

_It could take all day…_

…_Your bad mood just ties my hands_

_Turns my cartwheels into headstands_

_I've done everything I can_

_Gave all I had."_

_-All Your Reasons, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

Fred resurfaced from his memories when he reached the door to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He glanced up and down the deserted corridor before pushing at the door.

It was locked.

George certainly was playing hard to get. Fred felt a pang of annoyance; after all that they'd been through together, after all that he had done for him, how could George keep pushing him away?

He battled down the feeling. If he could just find out what was happening, he could help. There wasn't any other way. Seeing George suffer like this tore at his insides, and he hated to think what would happen if he left him to his own moody devices.

"_Alohomora_," breathed Fred, and when the lock clicked, he eased the door open silently, slipping his wand back into his pocket. His heart was pounding a mile a minute now, but there was no turning back.

Cautiously he took a step into the bathroom, looking around. He was faced by a row of cracked sinks and mirrors, while the cubicles were off to the side. This place hadn't been tended to in ages; there were puddles across the cracked dark tiles, and he swore there was something growing in the last sink.

Fred walked slowly through the room, searching for any sign of his brother. His feet slapped the floor loudly, and he could hear water dripping somewhere. If George was here, surely he'd heard him approach already.

"What're _you_ doing in here?" A soft voice made Fred jump. Moaning Myrtle had just drifted through one of the rusted cubicle doors and was staring disdainfully at him over her spectacles. "This is a girls' bathroom!"

"Go away, Myrtle," he said dismissively, turning away to continue his search.

"_Go away, Myrtle_," she mimicked. "Of _course_ no one cares about _Myrtle_. No one comes in here to visit_ Myrtle_." She raised her voice as her tone grew hysteric. "That's exactly what_ he_ said, too! Well, I have feelings, too, you know! And I don't appreciate –"

"Wait – do you mean George's here?" Fred walked right past her, peering down the aisle of cubicles.

"Come back here!" Myrtle screeched after him, but Fred ignored her.

At that moment, George himself emerged from one of the cubicles. "Oh, shut up, Myrtle," he snapped.

Myrtle's eyes suddenly filled with tears. With an unearthly wail, she flew up into the air and splashed down into one of the toilets. For a moment, the twins listened to the ghost's fading cries, staring across at each other and sizing each other up.

"Thanks," said Fred finally.

George walked back into the main room without a word, barely brushing past his brother. Fred trailed behind him. "I thought I told you to leave me alone," George said after a moment, leaning against the wall by the sinks and crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes were set in a stony glare.

Fred approached him carefully. He noticed that his twin's eyes did seem red and puffy, as if he'd been recently crying. Fred decided it was best not to comment.

George raised his chin defiantly, still waiting for an answer. Fred took a deep breath, deciding the truth was best. "You've been acting differently ever since Saturday. If it's not your injury, then what's wrong?"

"What's it to you?" George was avoiding the question.

"Why are you avoiding me? Honestly, George, we're _twins_ for God's sake. Why do you think I shouldn't care about you? What's so different now?"

George looked away and didn't answer, but he took a shaky, hesitant breath; it was as much of a sign that he was listening as he had given since the match. Fred pressed on. "It kills me to see you like this, George, really. I want to help you. I want the old George back. Everyone does." He paused. "I think even you do."

George swallowed hard, staring intensely at his feet. "Maybe the old me is gone," he whispered thickly. "Maybe there's no going back."

"Of course there is. Once you get back to doing normal things, you'll be fine. We've got Quidditch practice coming up, and this place has been far too quiet lately." Fred found himself grinning despite himself. "It's about time we pulled a few pranks on dear ol' Filch or that toad Umbridge."

George shook his head. "I can't."

"Don't be a goody-two shoes now, George. I've got a brilliant idea –"

"No," interrupted George forcefully, shaking his head again. "You don't get it. I _can't_."

"Well, why not?"

Blinking rapidly, George took several shallow breaths. But he didn't reply, his gaze still fixated on his feet.

Fred gripped George by the shoulders. "_Look _at me, will you?" he appealed sharply. "Tell me what's wrong so I can help you!"

Abruptly, as though those last words had snapped the last of his patience, George shoved him away. "You don't bloody well_ understand_, do you?" he screamed, before stumbling back and slumping against the sinks, breathing hard and a wild look in his eyes. The echoes of his desperate voice rang around the cold chamber: _Do you, do you, _do you_?_

Fred staggered back as if he'd been slapped. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his eyes were narrowed and his voice was icy. "Oh, I understand, George. I understand perfectly."

He felt horribly betrayed. How could George go about treating him like this, when he was only trying to help? Why didn't George _get_ that?

Well, he didn't need to deal with his animosity. Turning away, Fred stalked toward the door, walking away from his twin, his friend, and life as he knew it. By now, he didn't care: he wasn't going to put up with this treatment any longer.

_You want me to leave? ... Well, you're on your own then, George._

**·:·**

As soon as the words left his mouth, George regretted them. He sank to his knees, clutching the cracked sink to stay upright; he could feel wetness seeping into the knees of his jeans, the cold sending a shiver of fear down his spine. _No._ He hadn't meant it like that. He'd only snapped at what Fred had said...

Now Fred's footsteps were receding. George laid his forehead against the ceramics of the sink, trying to get a hold of himself. His eyes burned with warmth and he blinked back tears, absolutely disgusted with himself.

Fred had given him one last chance and he'd thrown it away. His brother, his best friend, was walking away from him. George desperately wanted that chance back.

"Fred?" he croaked. Fred kept walking. "Wait, Fred, please," he begged, "I'm sorry." He hated that pathetic pleading note in his voice. God, he just wanted Fred back; he wanted _George_ back. He couldn't have one, but at least he didn't want to lose the other, too.

"You can go ahead and be goddamn miserable for the rest of your life. I'll leave you alone. Isn't that what you want?"

"No – come back!" There was no answer. George squeezed his eyes shut. There was only one thing left to do. His heart thundered – it was only a chance, a terrifying chance, and if he messed up ... Fred would be gone. Forever.

He heard the door creak open.

"Fred," he said softly. "I – I want to show you something."

Fred paused at the door. "I don't care anymore, George," he said bitterly. The words pierced George's heart. He couldn't have just made his brother his enemy – no, this was the last thing he wanted to happen. He just had to try. He had to, even if it cost him everything.

"Please, Fred, it's important. I need to show you this." George waited with bated breath. Moments later, he heard Fred's footsteps returning.

"Make it quick," Fred snapped, his tone warning him that he hadn't been won over.

George shifted around to face the sink, remaining kneeling. Raising a hand, he touched the cracked mirror above him, trailing his finger over the rough metal edge and a smoother, glassy surface. The cool was comforting; his hands were shaking.

"What do you see?" he asked quietly. _Please let this work,_ he thought desperately. He needed Fred to understand this; maybe, if he understood ... A small hope kindled in his chest.

"Me," said Fred dubiously. "And you."

"What do we look like?" George pressed. His fingers had stopped wandering over the mirror's surface, and he heard the rasp of his shallow breathing in the silence, waiting for Fred's response.

"I know we're twins, if that's what you're getting at," said Fred crossly.

"That's not the point," George told him frankly. Normally he'd be prickled with irritation that Fred couldn't see the obvious – but now that was blocked out by the pounding fear of his heartbeat. This was his last chance; he had to make his point. George tried again. "I mean, what do we really look like?"

There was a long pause, and George knew Fred was wondering where the hell this was leading. "Why?"

"I want to know what you see." George waited, scared, in the spreading silence. He had to keep going; he took a long, shaky breath.

"Red hair. Blue eyes. Freckles. We're identical," said Fred uncertainly. "George, you know what we look like – you're staring right at the mirror."

George flinched at this, but continued to focus on the mirror he knew was in front of him. "I can't see us," he finished quietly.

"What?" Fred sounded unnerved; George wasn't looking at him, but he could picture his stare, his eyebrows raised, his lips twisted at a frown. "George, you're looking right at the mirror!"

_Damn it, Fred, do I have to spell it out for you?_

"I'm _blind_, Fred!" George cried. As this sank in, he braced himself for his twin's reaction, hearing only his own harsh breathing in the darkness.

**·:·**

"...My God," said Fred, staring at George. "You can't see _anything_?"

All the anger he'd felt had evaporated in a heartbeat; instead, numb shock began to seep through his veins. A part of him wanted to wave a hand in front of George's face, just to see if this was true. It was a very small part. He immediately dismissed that idea.

"Well," said George slowly, sounding uncertain of how cautiously he should tread. "I can sort of see shadow and light – but other than that, nothing."

Fred's mind was buzzing with half-finished thoughts; uncertain of his next move, he looked down at George; his brother stared back, blue eyes wide and wary. Fred could barely believe that those eyes weren't actually seeing him. He could see himself reflected in George's eyes; unnerved, Fred looked away.

"Ever since the match?" he finally guessed hoarsely once he'd found his voice. George nodded. "Well, that explains a lot." Fred tried to smile but couldn't. "The whole missing classes thing ... not doing any charms ... blowing up at Angelina and Alicia..."

Visibly relaxing, since Fred didn't seem particularly inclined to beat him to a pulp, as he previously did, George smiled wanly. "Guess I should apologize for that one."

"They'll get over it," Fred said, trying to sound chipper. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that this was happening. _My brother ... bind...?_

"So you're not mad at me?" asked George, his voice hesitant but underlined with something pathetically like amazement – and, Fred realized with a jolt, hope. He thought for a moment on that one: George was afraid of him, of what he'd think. And in a sudden bout of understanding, Fred felt even more like a bloody prat for yelling at him.

"Of course I am," Fred said with a small grin, hoping his light tone sounded reassuring. "But only a little bit. You really didn't need to act like such an idiot all day."

"I'm sorry – I just didn't – didn't want anyone to know," George began, his words tumbling out in a rush. "The only way I could do that was by distancing myself from everyone – including you. I guess - I didn't know how you'd take it." He shrugged and dropped his gaze, looking helpless.

"Apology accepted." Fred reached out and took hold of George's arm, hauling him to his feet. They stood together a moment, Fred with a steady hand on his brother's shoulder – the rest of him was trembling. In the silence, a faucet dripped in the background.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" asked George hesitantly.

"Never," promised Fred. "I solemnly swear it."

A truly genuine smile spread over George's face, and the transformation was instantaneous. It was the first time in days Fred had seen him happy, holding his head a little higher as if a tremendous burden had lifted slightly from his shoulders.

"Thanks," George murmured.

Wordlessly Fred slipped his arm around his shoulders, holding his brother close to him as he steered the both of them toward the door. His own mind was still blank, reeling with the shock of the encounter; in all honesty he had no idea of the weight of George's condition, and it left his mind buzzing with questions. Could George still stay at Hogwarts with him?

There was another incessant query about his blindness that lingered at the back of his mind, but he knew he couldn't ask – not now, when George was finally smiling again. All that was for certain was that George needed him now; George needed him to shoulder this burden, so that he would never suffer alone again.

Because as long as they were Fred and George, nothing could tear them apart.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	5. Better

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 **- Neatening and edits.

* * *

**Chapter 5 - Better**

_"Is it better now_

_Do you feel like all is fair_

_Can we work it out_

_So it's easier for me to bear_

_Because life, it can blind you."_

_-Can't Let You Go, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

Fred had no idea how long time stretched on in silence, but eventually a bell ringing in the distance broke through their reverie. In moments they could hear hundreds of students tramping through the corridors overhead, heading for the Great Hall and a filling dinner.

"So, what do we do now?" George asked after a moment; he almost seemed shy to venture the point forward and puncture the silence between them.

Fred offered a smile that George couldn't see, but hoped its warmth was conveyed in his jovial tone: "Let's eat," he suggested, "I'm starving."

George was quick to shake his head. "I don't want to go to the Great Hall. There's too many people around."

It occurred to Fred that he hadn't seen George at lunch or breakfast that day; he eyed his brother incredulously. "When's the last time you've eaten?"

"Er - last night, before I left the hospital wing," admitted George, looking down at his feet. His stomach chose that unfortunate moment to let out a pitiful growl; he grimaced, ears going rather pink.

Fred's eyes widened in shock and he tightened his grip on his twin's arm. "Honestly, George! Don't do this to yourself! C'mon, let's get some food into you."

And, despite George protesting and digging in his heels, Fred had already made up his mind. His jaw clenched, his face creased in a look of concern strongly reminiscent of their mother, Fred dragged him with bullish strength out of their safe haven.

**·:·**

George, recognizing defeat, could do nothing more than stumble along in his brother's quickened footsteps as a firm grip on his arm led him down the halls. Quite quickly the rumble of footfalls and chatter grew louder; George tensed, dreading the approach of the Great Hall.

Then, just as suddenly, the noise began to fade. George registered the solitary thump of their feet on stone and realized they'd ducked down a side passage. His memory served as a decent guide, but at Fred's pace he couldn't take time to attempt to deduce their course; he was too afraid he'd trip and wind up with a few more bruises.

"Where're we going?" he panted as they swung around another corner. He was beginning to have a good idea where, himself; but Fred didn't reply, and he was left in silence with the sound of his harried breathing.

"Fred –" George tried again, "– slow down, you idiot! D'you want me to –"

At that moment, true to his word, Fred came to a stop. George couldn't catch himself in time and staggered right into his back, falling backward with a faint grunt. Fred was nice enough to realize this and right him before he could make even more of a fool of himself.

"Sorry," Fred said, and for once he truly sounded apologetic; the vice grip on his arm loosened somewhat. "Look – er, never mind that – there's stairs in front of us. Can you – er –"

"Yes, I can walk," George retorted, trying to keep irritation out of his tone; Fred was trying his best, after all, he was just a bit of an idiot sometimes. George sighed and gently pried his arm away from Fred. "I know my way around all right. You don't have to lead me. Just ... stay close."

Fred hesitated; he could almost see the gesture, and George cracked a smile. "Really," he urged. "I got around today, didn't I?"

That point made Fred grudgingly agree, "All right, but it's your fault if you fall and die, you hear?"

"At your pace I almost did," George said dryly, reaching out to feel his way to the wall. His left hand met cold, rough stone; he shuffled forward, testing the way with his feet. Fred was nearly breathing down his neck and he smiled at his brother's over-protectiveness; then he forced himself to focus, else he prove Fred right, for once.

Clutching the wall, taking each step slowly and feeling out the downward slope with his feet, he managed to make it down the stairs unscathed, and then he ventured on at a bit quicker, yet comfortable, pace. Fred's footsteps were right behind him.

"Mind the wall, George."

George held out his hands and found the wall dangerously close on his left.

"Thanks." He pushed off from the wall.

He'd only taken a few strides when, "You keep veering sideways. You're at the wall again."

He held out his hand; he could touch the wall again, only a foot or so away. Frustrated, George burst out, "How am I supposed to stop it? I can't tell where I'm going!"

"Hang on," said Fred quickly, obviously not wanting to tick him off again. "Uh ... maybe you just have to walk slower. How did you get around today?" He changed the subject purposefully.

"I'd stay where no one else was, and move during classes," George explained hesitantly, stepping cautiously forward, still trailing his fingertips along the wall for guidance. "And I'd keep to the side like this."

"Hmm." By Fred's tone, George knew he wanted to say something he probably didn't want to hear. With a heavy sigh George dropped his hand from the wall.

"What is it, Fred?"

"Well, that's fine for now, I guess," he said hastily, trying to bolster him. "But when there's people around and such, I'll have to guide you until you can walk like you're sober."

"Joy of my heart," George said, voice dripping sarcasm. "I'm _very_ sorry I can't walk in a straight line, Fred."

"Well, it can't be that hard, can it? You just have to put one foot in front of the other."

"Why don't you try it with your eyes closed, then?" George challenged. It had been nothing more than a jab, as he was beginning to feel rather prickly again, but to his surprise Fred agreed.

"All right, I'll try."

George blinked; he waited a moment, listening to the slow steps of his brother moving forward. Then came a loud bang, and a muffled "ow".

"Fred?" he called out, now worried.

"'m okay," Fred muttered. "Just ran into a suit of armour..."

George sniggered; "Oh, God, Fred, _now_ which one of us is blind?"

"Shut it," Fred growled, nursing his wounded pride. Nevertheless, he was kind enough to take hold of George's wrist and lead him swiftly down the middle of the passage (though, he did restrain his pace this time, and George kept stride with him in a way it was almost natural, save the grip on his wrist).

"This could actually work," Fred noted, and George reflected he should probably take offense at how impressed he sounded. Though, he had to admit his twin had a point: if Fred walked beside him he could easily match the rhythm of his steps, and if he did happen to wander off-course, it wouldn't take more than a subtle tug on his sleeve to get him on track again.

"Can we practice this again sometime?" George queried softly, almost ashamed to ask for assistance with something so trivial. Fred blew it off: "Anytime, dear brother of mine."

They had stopped short: if George's mental map was correct, and he had great faith in his recollections of the Marauder's Map, they would be right outside a certain portrait of a bowl of fruit. There was a sharp click, and the creak of hinges swinging open; somewhere within, George heard the clatter of noise he immediately associated with the house-elves bustling about the kitchen, clanking dishes and scurrying to prepare Hogwarts's evening meal.

With a guiding light push George clambered through the portrait hole first; he landed in the midst of the elves and gingerly pushed his way through the three-foot-tall crowd, all squeaking and chattering. "Welcome back, Misters Weasley!"

"Look, it's almost time for dessert," Fred said brightly, arriving beside him. Realizing what he'd said, he quickly apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean –"

"It's all right," George assured him quietly, noting that they really needed to stop apologizing to each other for everything. He decided to change the subject. "What is there?"

"Er –" Fred began, but at that moment a house-elf squeaked near George's knees, "How can we help you good sirs?"

"We'd like something to eat, if it's not too much trouble," stated Fred.

"No trouble at all!" declared the elf, quite honoured. George grinned despite himself. He had to mentally congratulate Fred on coming here – the house-elves' oddities always cheered him right up.

"What would you sirs be desiring?" asked the elf.

"George?" Fred appealed him.

"Anything," he said with a shrug. "I don't really mind."

"A bit of everything, and don't forget the Butterbeer," Fred reiterated cheerily to the elf. "Hey, can we sit down?"

"Not there, sir!" the elf squealed hastily. "We is sending up dessert to the hall. You must not touch that food, sir!"

"Shame," said Fred, "it looks delicious." George cracked a smile; he didn't have to see the scene to know Fred was doing his best to lift his spirits – and it was working, bless that sodding bastard.

"Come this way, sirs! We has a different table for yous!" The elf scampered off, and the twins followed. George would have been lost in the bustle then, if it weren't for Fred catching his elbow and pulling him along in his wake.

"Sit here!" declared the elf moments later, and George imagined it was bowing with its floppy ears touching the ground. Grinning at this mental image, he fumbled around for his chair and sat.

As the twins sat down, the elf spoke up anxiously. "Is this table suitable for you sirs?"

"It's great," supplied Fred with a smile in his voice, and the elf probably bowed again in its overwhelming delight.

**·:·**

When the house-elf had left, Fred glanced about thoughtfully. They were sitting at a small circular table at the far back of the chamber, beside a roaring fireplace. George had turned toward the flames as if he knew they were there. With a pang of sadness, Fred looked away.

He chose to watch instead as the elves worked to set up the desserts on the four long house table replicas. He leaned his elbows on the table, observing in silence. In moments, the tables were covered in scrumptious-looking cakes, tarts and more. Fred stared hungrily as the food disappeared, to arrive in the Great Hall upstairs. Overheard they could hear a faint rumble of chatter of the students settling in for the feast, and Fred's mouth watered.

"Butterbeer, sirs." The house-elf had returned.

"Oh, thanks," said Fred enthusiastically, removing his arms from the table. The elf placed a glass tankard filled with golden liquid in front of each of them.

"Cheers," said Fred, raising his glass. When George, staring off in thought, didn't respond immediately, he lowered it slowly. "Come on, George. You don't have to be like this anymore."

George felt around for his Butterbeer and brought it toward himself. Staring sightlessly into the depths of his glass, he murmured, "It's not going to be the same, Fred. No matter what you say."

"George, is it..." Fred hesitated; he wanted to ask, but at the same time he was afraid of hearing the truth, of seeing George so alone and without hope again. He shook himself: no, George would never be alone. He cleared his throat and mumbled, eyes on the hewn tabletop, "Is it permanent?"

George's reply was so quiet, he nearly missed it. "I think so." Fred raised his eyes and for an instant their gazes met; yet it was only a cruel fantasy, as one of them saw nothing.

"Ah." Fred didn't have anything to say to that; he felt like he should reassure him, wipe that unknown haunted look from his twin's eyes – but somehow he couldn't. It was true that he'd been clinging to the hope of an easy way out, that Madam Pomfrey could somehow fix his twin's eyesight; the truth of that secret, fervent hope made his stomach twist sickly. George had accepted it, hadn't he? And he was the one – the _brave_ one – who had to live in darkness. Meanwhile Fred could do nothing but selfishly deny that anything was different and put off for a simple solution.

"You're right," Fred finally sighed. George blinked up at him in surprise and he went on, "It won't be exactly like before, of course. But I can help, and ... you can help me." Fred looked helplessly at George, and he thought he saw some sort of understanding, of hope, kindle in his azure eyes. "In all honesty, I'm not sure what to do now."

"That makes two of us." With a small smile George raised his glass.

Fred smiled, too, glad to get that off his chest. He knew that there was a long journey ahead of them now, a path to healing, but he was ready to face whatever came at him and George. After all, they were twins, and they stood together no matter what.

Fred and George toasted to each other and drank.

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	6. Relief

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 **- Neatening and edits. I love the conversation between the twins at the end here. :D

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Relief**

_"Say goodbye, these days are gone_

_And we can't keep holding on_

_When all we need is some relief_

_From these hard times."_

_-These Hard Times, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

The next morning, George awoke onto darkness. He lay still, face buried in his pillow; he had no earnest desire to get up just now, and the dormitory around him was yet ensconced in silence. He settled for burrowing deeper into the warmth of his blankets, groaning softly.

Sleep playfully eluded him for a few more minutes before he gave up. Sighing faintly, he sat up and flexed aching muscles – he could still feel a few bruises from that Saturday's Quidditch match, though, he reasoned ironically, those were the least of his worries. _Another day of hiding..._ Idly he wondered what classes he could skip today.

Silently as possible, he slipped from his bed and dropped his feet to the cold floor, stumbling across the room. He felt his way along the familiar path to the washroom with little difficultly. Once inside, he half-closed the door with his foot and fumbled across the wall for the light switch.

_Click._

Faint traces of light burst through the curtain of darkness; even that slight relief was welcome. George's hands found the counter for support, and he stood there a moment in front of what he knew to be the mirror, soaking in the light overhead. In the silence, all he heard was his own slightly hitched breathing.

His thoughts wandered away, as they often did when he was alone. Ever since he'd been blind, George frequently found himself deep in thought. It was one of the few things he could still do in the long hours of silence and darkness – of loneliness. He missed the solace of crowds and company, for now they brought him nothing but the fear of discovery. Now he shied away from the spotlight, preferring to be alone – no, not alone, he corrected himself – with Fred. When he was with his brother, he could retreat into their own world, as they had last night, where it was okay for him to be blind, to be who he was, and Fred promised him the support he needed. Sometimes it was all right to be alone, too; he needed time to be by himself and sort out his thoughts.

Other times, though, in late night and early morning, the everlasting darkness and silence got to him. Dark thoughts buried at the back of his mind arose to haunt him, drawing on his deepest fears. He worried of his eventual discovery; what would happen then? He could see no good coming of it; he dreaded separation from Fred. What if he was forced to leave school or to leave his twin? Most of all, though, he feared the damage was already done: that they already had broken apart.

_Alone._

The thought rang in his head far too often recently. The gap between him and Fred grew wider, and all he could do was cling desperately to the remains of their relationship. Fred tried to help him, he really did, but things were different now between them. It wasn't his fault, but Fred just couldn't understand what he was going through. Fred didn't have to face the endless darkness, fighting to not succumb to the helplessness. Fred wasn't left alone with these sort of painful thoughts, as George was now.

George sighed and lowered his head. There was nothing to be done about it now, he told himself, but to steel himself with a smile ... and for all the world would know, nothing had changed, even if it meant inside his heart was breaking.

**·:·**

Fred woke up very suddenly. He lay on his back in the darkness a moment, his muddled brain wondering what had awoken him.

Still half asleep, he fumbled for his watch and squinted at it. It was far too early to be awake on a Tuesday. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked around the silent dormitory. The other boys were all still asleep, except for George: his bed was empty.

There was a faint light coming from the half-closed bathroom door. Fred padded to the door and knocked lightly. After a long moment of no response he then pushed the door open and blinked in the flood of light.

George was standing at the mirror, staring unblinkingly at his reflection. He didn't seem to notice his brother's cautious approach.

Fred looked from George to the George in the mirror. For the first time, he thought he understood how his twin must be feeling: the pain of remembering, and knowing he would never see it again; the harshness of struggling to do what used to be second-nature to him; the bitter loneliness that no light could penetrate.

George would never be the same.

_And neither will I,_ Fred thought as he stared at his brother. It hurt him deeply to see George gazing at his reflection without seeing it, looking so sad; and for a fervent instant he wished it had been _him_ that got hit, if only to save George from the darkness. If only there was something, anything he could do to help George, or to at least draw him out of this pain he was in, if only for a while...

"How long are you going to stand there?" George finally spoke, though he hadn't moved; his tone was weary, and with a sigh Fred shifted forward, touching a hand to his twin's shoulder. He tried to ignore the way George jumped, not expecting the contact.

"Come on, Georgie," he whispered gently, steering him away from the mirror. Fred didn't know what he would do, but he couldn't bear watching him mope there a moment longer. A sudden idea occurred to him.

"Why don't we go for a walk?"

George shrugged noncommittally, which he figured was about as much assent as he would get out of him. "All right. Just hang on a second," Fred promised before he hurried back to their trunks, fishing out their school robes and winter cloaks; he reminisced the way their mother used to bundle them up before setting them loose in the snow, and grinned at the irony as he handed George his warmer clothes. Once they were both dressed, Fred led George from the dark dorm.

**·:·**

The castle was quiet in the morning. George found he quite liked it that way, with the corridors deserted except for the pair of their echoing footsteps. He grew more confident in his mental layout of the school as he recognized their course for the Entrance Hall, and the Weasley twins stopped at the base of the stairs there.

"Wait here," Fred whispered, and was scurrying off before George could wonder where he was headed. Alone, he rolled his eyes, and confident that no one was watching him, George began to walk slowly up and down the Hall, feeling his way around. He was certain, with Fred around to guide him, he'd get around fine; but George had enough pride left to not want to be in complete reliance on Fred.

He'd gotten around yesterday by leaving classes before or after everyone else, when the hallways were less crowded, or he'd skipped out entirely. He liked his strategy – though he knew the teachers wouldn't – but only shrugged off that inconvenience for now. In addition, he'd purposely avoided the Great Hall, but he knew they couldn't eat in the kitchens forever; they weren't known across Gryffindor house for nothing, and sooner or later someone was bound to get suspicious.

George was focusing on walking in a straight line when he heard a cackle behind him. Whirling around, he concentrated, listening for the sound again.

"Who's there?" he snapped, his every muscle having gone tense. Distantly his mind was whirling; how much had they seen? Was it enough to figure out...?

"Testy little student, isn't he?" sniggered a familiar voice from above, and George could picture the school's poltergeist floating above him, probably upside-down with his feet waggling in the air.

"Go away, Peeves." George's muscles had not eased any and he narrowed his eyes, trying to deduce an escape route. But Peeves was just beginning...

"I shan't!" cried the poltergeist gleefully, and George heard him blowing a noisy raspberry.

"Be quiet!" he hissed in desperation, not wanting Peeves to wake up the whole castle and bring someone down on him. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest; he had to get out of here, and fast...

"Ooh, is ickle student out without permission? I should tell, yes I should!" sang Peeves.

"Peeves!" boomed a deep voice. Peeves hesitated mid-taunt. "This is the Bloody Baron! I order you to leave him alone now!"

George resisted the urge to grin. He knew very well that the "Bloody Baron" was a fake.

"Of course, your Bloodiness!" Peeves's voice was dripping sarcasm. Yet George still heard him zooming away, rattling suits of armour as he went; after a moment the Hall returned to welcome silence, and George let out a long breath he'd hardly noticed he was holding. He turned in the direction of the approaching footsteps and grinned.

"Nice one."

"Thanks. I try," said Fred brightly. "C'mon, let's get away from here before Filch shows up."

George couldn't agree more, and he followed Fred through the main entrance at the end of the hall. They closed the grand oak doors softly behind them and set off through the frosty grounds.

As the Weasley twins crunched through the foot-deep snow, a cold breeze whipped around them, stirring their long cloaks and the tails of their red-and-gold scarves. Something in the breeze made George feel suddenly, inexplicably happy: he was out here with Fred, and nothing else mattered, not the cold, not the snow, not the classes in two hours' time. Grinning he turned to face the wind, throwing out his arms so that his cloak flapped wildly in his ears, the wind stinging his eyes and his cheeks as he let out a euphoric laugh.

Abruptly snow slapped him in the back of the head and he staggered in shock.

"Fred, you idiot!" he yelled as cold snow slid down his back. In response, his brother hit him with another snowball.

George scooped up some snow and sent it flying in Fred's general direction. He knew he probably had missed; he definitely was disadvantaged here. Getting a sudden idea, George collected an armful of snow and headed in the direction of Fred's boisterous laughter.

"George, what—" Fred didn't get to finish his sentence as George tackled him, stuffing the snow down the back of his robes.

"Got you!" George declared gleefully as they rolled, his twin thrashing beneath him; in a moment he had successfully pinned Fred face-down in the snow, still laughing madly, scooping up bare handfuls of the white powder and piling it on top of his twin's head. God, if anyone happened to see them now, they'd have to think they'd gone absolutely insane. But somehow, that didn't bother him as much as it usually would have.

Fred spat out a mouthful of slush. "Yeah, great. Now get off me, you big oaf."

**·:·**

After their snowball fight, shaking snow from their hair, the twins made their way down to the lake. The water's surface had only half-frozen in the early November chill; there were still ponds along the surface, and the ice was as fragile as eggshells.

Fred and George sat down near the water's edge, beneath the bare beech tree. After so gleefully soaking each other, the cold began to cut through Fred's wet cloak; he tugged his collar a bit higher, wondering if George was warm enough. He glanced across at his brother, who had settled with his back against the tree, head tilted to the breeze, eyes closed.

"Wonder if the squid's out," commented George.

"Nah, the lake's frozen," said Fred a bit too quickly. Realizing with a pang that there was no way he could have known, he apologized, "Sorry, I didn't mean –"

George only shrugged; his expression was still content, and Fred gladly let the matter drop.

Remembering something then, Fred rummaged in his cloak and pulled out a wrapped stack of toast, still slightly warm from the kitchens. He passed some to George. "It's your fault if they're squished."

"Oh, shut up, will you?" said George mildly, accepting the toast. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, Fred staring out over the lake.

"What do we have today?" George wondered.

Fred swallowed. "Potions first." (At this George made a face.) "And ... I'm not sure what else." He looked over at his twin. "So what're you gonna do about classes? Not that I mind you skipping – I'll skip with you any day – but you can't do that forever. People are gonna realize what you're up to."

George grinned maliciously. "No, they won't. Skiving Snackboxes, remember?" The Snackboxes were their own ingenious invention: sweets designed to make people sick to get them out of class, with second candies to instantly heal them, giving them the rest of the day to do as they pleased. "They'll just think I get sick a lot."

"Yeah, every single day," said Fred dryly. "You are going to need a _lot_ of excuses, mate."

George shrugged, "Better get started then. It's not that I'm worried about, anyway – I can't read the textbooks or anything."

"I'll just read out loud, then," suggested Fred, eager now, a familiar glint coming to his eyes. It was just as though they were planning out a most elaborate prank: scheming together, loving every moment of it. "And when we practice spells I can show you how to do them – you know, subtly."

George shook his head, casting him an amused look. "Since when are you _ever_ subtle?"

"...Damn you, George."

He chuckled, but sobered quickly. "And what about homework?"

Fred raised an eyebrow. "When have we ever done our homework, George?"

"...Good point."

"Now, if you actually started doing your work, _that_ would make them suspicious."

"Okay, Fred, you've proven your point. We're horrible people and Hermione Granger would just _love_ to have our necks for being the free souls we are." George sighed dramatically, a hand over his heart.

Fred grinned, clapping. "That was most eloquent of you, George, I'm impressed."

"_I'm_ impressed you know what that means."

"Oi!" Fred gasped, pretending to be mightily insulted. "Don't make me bludgeon you again, you prat."

George shrugged innocently. "You could, but then you'd have to deal with the guilt of hitting someone who can't fight back."

"Stop it, now, you're making me feel bad." As he spoke, grinning maliciously, Fred had reached down by his feet and was carefully packing a snowball.

"Subtlety _really_ isn't one of your strong points, Fred," George critiqued, giving him a direct stare. Fred dropped the snow with a bark of laughter.

"That's mighty spooky, George, you know."

George raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment. "In any case, let's skip Potions this morning," he decided serenely. "You know how our favourite Professor gets."

Fred nodded, sobering. It would be near impossible to slip past Snape in Potions, with his _no-helping-people-I-can-humiliate_ philosophy. It took several moments of George staring at him expectantly for him to realize he was still waiting for an answer.

"Oh – yeah, sure. Sorry." Fred ducked his head, mentally kicking himself for his mistake. It would take some time for him to get used to using solely verbal communication; he didn't want to leave George in the dark.

After that, they sat in silence for a while, enjoying the calm morning. Sunlight reflected off the icy surface of the lake, sparkling dazzlingly bright. A light breeze toyed with their hair and robes, but the overall atmosphere was pleasant enough.

"D'you have the time?" George asked finally, shifting.

Fred glanced down at his wrist. "Nah, I forgot my watch."

"Let's get back up to the castle, then." George stood and stretched, then tossed his remaining toast out onto the lake. A tentacle snaked out from one of the pools and snagged the drifting toast.

"There's your squid, George," said Fred brightly, getting up too and dusting snow from his robes.

"A sign, I'm sure," smirked George, gazing in the direction of the lake. The smile faded and for a moment he looked sad again.

Wanting to change the subject, Fred glanced around for inspiration. "Hey, George, there's that Loony Lovegood girl," he said, spotting the Ravenclaw fourth year traversing the lawn. "Wonder where she's going." The blond girl traced the path winding down the hillside to Hagrid's hut and soon disappeared from view between the trees.

Her behaviour was odd, but George didn't seem interested; with a sigh Fred paced toward him and slung an arm around his brother's shoulders. He noted a slight shiver in his limbs, but Fred bit back comment. Instead he only held his brother as close as he would let him as Fred led them back inside.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	7. Scared

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**12/04/11 – **Well ... apparently this chapter disappeared off the face of the earth. O.o Many thanks to TeamMalec for catching that issue!

* * *

**Chapter 7 - Scared**

_"I think I'm just scared - that I know too much_

_I can't relate and that's a problem I'm feeling_

_If you're gone - maybe it's time to go home_

_There's an awful lot of breathing room_

_But I can hardly move_

_If you're gone – baby, you need to come home_

_'Cause there's a little bit of something me_

_In everything in you."_

_-If You're Gone, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

"You guys up – already?" asked Lee Jordan, barely stifling a yawn, when the soaking wet and beaming Weasley twins returned to the seventh year boys' dormitory. He was the last one to get up; Fred and George had passed the other boys on their way down to breakfast.

"'Course we are," said Fred automatically. "You slept in. It's lunch already."

"Really?" Lee enthused. "Sweet! I missed the Potions test!"

"We have a test today?" George turned to Fred in surprise.

Fred grimaced, "Yeah. Snape told us yesterday, when you weren't there."

Lee sighed, crestfallen. "Wonderful, now I have to take the test. Thanks a lot, Fred, you liar. What time is it, anyway?"

"Hang on." George heard Fred blunder away through the dorm. "It's eight," he called back, after he presumably found his watch.

"We've got Potions first," groaned Lee. "Anyone up for last-minute studying?"

"Not me. I'm gonna take a shower," announced Fred, and moments later George heard the bathroom door close, leaving him alone with Lee.

George wandered over to his bed and sat down, listening faintly to Lee rummaging through his trunk. He considered telling him; after all, the twins had been friends with Lee since their first year. George _did_ trust him, but he wasn't sure he wanted anyone else to know right now. He knew Fred would treat him just the same as before, only helping him when he needed it – that was always Fred's way – but George didn't know if anyone else would. Would they get past his eyes and see him as George Weasley, or would they just see him as crippled and weak?

George lowered his head. It was hard for him to know even what to think of himself. He'd quickly realized what had happened after the Bludger had blinded him, and he'd eventually accepted the fact. Fred accepting it, too, had brought some of his life back to him. But there were times when he lost faith and couldn't help hating himself for being so helpless. He didn't want to be dependent; he wanted to live for himself.

If he couldn't cope with himself, how could he expect anyone else to accept him? It was this fear of Lee's reaction that held George back; he glanced up, driven from his thoughts, to the sound of nearing footsteps.

"Have you seen my Potions book?" Lee asked him desperately.

"What?" George dimly realized that Lee must have been searching for his textbook while he had been lost in thought. "Er – no."

"Damn it, I can't fail Potions!" fretted Lee. "I need to find my book – maybe if I could actually see, it's so dark in here," he finished wryly.

George flinched; the most offhand remarks stung him these days. People just didn't realize how much they relied on their sight until it was gone. The curtains scraped open and warm sunlight caressed George's face. He turned toward the light, drinking it in.

"Wow, that's bright – here's my book!" Lee crowed suddenly. "All right. Snape said we needed to know how to make the Draught of the Living Dead. Here it is. George, can you quiz me on it?" Lee pushed the book into George's hands.

"Er," he said, jumping up. He quickly thought of an excuse. "I have to go to –!" He needn't have bothered, for at that moment the door banged open.

"There you are, Fred!" gasped Hermione's voice. George guessed that Harry and Ron were with her, judging by the multiple footsteps. The fifth years' breathing was heavy – they must have run up to the seventh floor. "I've been looking all over for you! I need to talk to you, alone, a minute. It's about – about George."

"Er," said George again, at once surprised that she couldn't tell them apart and prickled by annoyance. What were she and Fred planning behind his back? What was going on here? For an instant an icy fear tightened his insides, and his breath caught; no, Fred couldn't have told her ... He had bloody _promised_...

"This _is_ George," corrected Lee from beside him.

"Really? I – er – oh," Hermione stammered, flustered. "S-sorry."

"Where's Fred?" Ron broke in.

"Why do you need to talk to _him_?" George folded his arms across his chest as he surveyed where – he hoped – they stood with a glare. _And not to me,_ he implied silently. Goddamn it, he wasn't a bloody _infirm_; if they had something to say about him, they could say it to his face.

"Um, w-well, ah," stuttered Hermione.

"And what are you doing, barging in here in the first place? I mean, what if we were changing?" added Lee incredulously. George gave a start, having almost forgotten he was there.

"Um – well, Harry and Ron are with me!" Hermione spluttered; there was growing desperation in her tone, and George knew things were spiralling out of her control. He kept his arms crossed and his stony glare in place, however; he wasn't about to offer her help.

"Hey, this was your idea!" said Ron defensively.

"Yeah, what's this about, anyway?" Harry put in, his voice tinged with more curiosity than annoyance.

"Can we please just talk to Fred?" Hermione asked in a small, pleading voice. "You can stay. I didn't mean what I said, honest."

George sighed in defeat – there was no way he could walk away from this confrontation. With resignation he slowly crossed the room to the bathroom. Knocking, he called out, "Fred! Hermione's here for you."

**·:·**

Fred had needed some time alone, so he'd retreated to the shower to think. With the warm water cascading down his shoulders, he mulled over the current situation. The events of the past few days had changed his and George's lives. First, the infamous match. The shock and terror he'd gone through on George's behalf were not something he'd soon want to repeat, but he had. When George was released from the hospital wing, declared perfectly healthy, he'd thought it was over. _Madam Pomfrey hadn't done a very complete check, _Fred thought wryly, for only a day later had come the revelation that George was blind.

It had been a shock, at the very least. At first, Fred had tried denying it; something that major just couldn't have happened to the inseparable, identical twins. But soon it became painfully obvious that George was different now, and that he needed Fred's help.

To be honest, Fred didn't know how to act around his twin anymore. So far he'd been acting on instinct, trying to make George happy and simply avoiding the problem. But Fred knew that they couldn't remain ignorant forever; eventually, people would find out, and he wasn't sure George was prepared for the world to know he was blind. And he couldn't always be there to help George do everything. George needed help, and Fred didn't know how to give it to him.

Fred sighed bitterly; the words George had screamed at him were still vivid in his mind. _You don't understand,_ George had said. It was true; Fred didn't understand. The twins had broken apart, when this should have brought them closer. Before, Fred and George could almost read each other's minds, they knew each other so well. Now George was like a stranger; Fred couldn't comprehend everything his brother was going through, and by extension had no idea just what George needed. And George wasn't talking about it. Fred was helpless and he felt horrible about it.

Fred shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping himself in a towel. He'd thought it was bad, when George had flat-out avoided him. Now it was worse, to suffer in silence.

Fred made up his mind; he was going to fix this rift between them before they drifted even further apart. He was going to have to talk to George, to find out everything, and to confront this problem directly.

There was a knock on the door. It was George; apparently Hermione wanted to talk to him. Curious, he put his plan on hold for the moment, dressed rapidly, and then stepped out into the dorm.

**·:·**

Hermione, pink-faced, shuffled her feet under the curious stares of the others. She shifted the bag on her shoulder, heavier with the presence of the leaden book she'd carted over from the library as soon as she'd found it. Her previous certainty of her earlier plan was slowly fizzling: she'd come here with only one idea in mind, to find Fred and tell him what she'd found out about his brother's condition. She hadn't predicted that they'd run into George instead; his presence made her more nervous, and she clenched her heavy book bag tight to her chest as if it were a shield.

Now George was returning with Fred in tow; he looked surprised to see her, rubbing a towel through his sopping hair as he inclined his head. "Hey, 'Mione."

"Now can we find out what this is all about?" asked Harry, sounding a little peeved. She hadn't told either of her friends yet, though she had disrupted their breakfast with the idea to revisit the library. Now she wondered if she should have come alone; if she should have waited until later, when her rush of adrenaline from the discovery had worn off. Fred should know first, she deemed, and wondered, in a panic, what if he didn't want the others to know...?

She swallowed back her fears. "Er, yes," she said nervously, reaching into her bag. Never mind the complications: she could do this. Hermione took a steady breath to appease her nerves, ignoring George's irked glare, Lee Jordan looking from her to Fred curiously, Ron and Harry hovering in the background eyeing her incredulously. If her prediction was correct, George wouldn't even know what was going on, and if she did this fast enough the others wouldn't see, either.

"I wanted to show you this," said Hermione in a rush, thrusting the heavy book into Fred's hands.

**·:·**

He'd only taken a quick glance at the book's title before stowing it behind his back; the others were looking on curiously, yet Fred had gone pale.

Now he realized exactly why Hermione was here. Though he had forgotten, the other day in the library, she had figured out George's secret and promised to tell him later. She couldn't have known the situation had changed.

"What is it?" Lee asked, trying to get a look at the book. Fred shifted away from him and met Hermione's eye. She looked nervous but hopeful.

"I know," Fred managed once he'd found his voice.

Surprise flitted across Hermione's face; Fred turned to George, whose expression gave away how annoyed he was at being left out. "George, she knows."

This infuriated George even more and his gaze darkened. "Tell her to keep her nose out of other people's business!"

"What do you know?" demanded Ron, looking between the three of them. "What's going on?"

Fred looked helplessly at George. Of all things, he did not want this to happen; he knew his twin wasn't ready for this, when it had taken him so long to summon the courage to tell Fred about it. He stepped toward him, touching a hand to his arm – George flinched.

"You don't have to tell them if you don't want to."

Lee seemed to want to say something but thought better of it; he knew the twins would tell him when they were ready. Ron, however, had no such perception.

While Fred was distracted he darted around and snagged the book. "Ah-ha!" he cried triumphantly, before glancing at the leather-bound cover, which was blank except for a scattering of raised dots below a single word.

His brow furrowed. "What the heck is Braille?"

If Fred ever wanted to strangle his younger brother, it was now. He shook his head violently at Ron, but it was too late. Harry, who was slightly more informed in these matters than Ron, whipped his head around to stare at the twins.

Off to the side Lee was staring at them all in speechless shock. Fred felt George's muscles tense beneath his hand; he was staring at Hermione with contempt.

"Yes," he hissed through clenched teeth, "I'm blind. Problem with that?" He turned his head wildly, including all of them in his challenging glare.

"Then how could you play Quid-ow!" began Ron, but Hermione kicked him in the shin.

"We only wanted to help," Hermione squeaked apologetically, before he whirled on her.

"I don't need your help! Just leave me alone!" Wrenching his arm away from Fred, George stormed from the room. The slam of the door echoed throughout the suddenly deathly silent chamber.

Fred couldn't believe it. He'd thought that they'd gotten somewhere, but now they were back to square one. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his still-wet hair, exhaling slowly; he thought he was beginning to feel the pulse of a headache coming on in his temples.

Reopening his eyes after a long moment, Fred looked around at them all, standing stock-still in shock. "Please don't tell anyone," he said quietly, appealing them with his earnest stare. "He's still upset – he doesn't want anyone to know."

Silent, dutiful nods all around; Hermione's eyes were round, and Harry had gone pale. Fred, stepping forward, tugged the book from Ron's slack grip, giving him a glare as anger flickered at his insides. "You couldn't just leave him alone, could you?"

"How is this my fault?" sputtered Ron. Fred grimaced, biting back a retort; but as much as Ron was getting on his nerves, pounding him into a pulp really wouldn't help matters, unfortunately.

"Fred..." Hermione finally spoke up, staring at her clenched hands – her knuckles had gone white. "I – I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

Fred glanced at her. She was biting her lip, her cheeks pale, looking as if she was trying hard to hold back tears; he sighed, his anger gusting out with his breath. "Look," he said wearily, "it's not your fault. You couldn't have known. I know you meant well, but it's ... Things are just complicated right now, all right? Just give me a chance to talk to him."

Hermione nodded, her head lowered.

Fred turned away and rubbed his fist wearily over his temples. It was true he was getting a bit annoyed with running after George. But he also knew that getting mad at him wouldn't solve anything. He had to be the mature one, as bloody ironic as that was; his lips twitched at a wry, sad smile, figuring he and George might just as well switch names as well as roles.

"I'd best go find him," muttered Fred, swinging his school bag onto his shoulder and stowing the Braille book inside for later investigation. He started toward the door, the others slowly shifting out of their stupor behind him.

"I'll come with you," said Lee quickly, matching his stride.

"Us, too," piped up Harry, hastily looking around at Ron and Hermione, who nodded.

An overwhelming feeling rose up in him, seeing them all step up to join him, to support him; but Fred forced himself to shake his head. "No, it's best ... It's best if I go alone."

"We'll cover the castle faster if there's more of us," Lee pointed out tactfully.

"Look – you saw him. George'll only talk to me, if that." Fred's voice was bleak; but Lee shook his head.

"Bugger that. We can at least help you find him. You don't think I'm gonna go off to Potions alone, do you?"

Fred smiled wanly, reminded of the reality that suddenly seemed so distant to the both of them. "All right." He glanced back at the four trailing him and earnestly wished George could see now how much they all cared for him, sightless or not.

"All of you..." he said suddenly, quietly, a very un-Fred-like lump rising in his throat, "...thank you."

Hermione only beamed; Lee clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Anytime, mate."

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	8. She

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Thank you again, Evenstar606, for your suggestion of the Thestral's name! Teyla it is. :)

**10/04/11 – **Yeah, even edited, this is still by far the shortest chapter. ^^" It's just that there's nothing else to happen here, really...

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**Chapter 8 - She**

_"She believes that life is made up of all that you're used to_

_And the clock on the wall has been stuck at three for days and days_

_She thinks that happiness is a mat that sits on her doorway_

_But outside, it's stopped raining."_

_-3 AM, Matchbox Twenty_

_**·:·**  
_

George wandered the long wintry corridors for a long time, not too sure where he was going, one corner of his mind mentally tracing his footsteps along the maze of paths of the Marauder's Map. Upon hearing the nine o'clock bell for classes ring out, he'd ducked outside for a breath of fresh air.

It was a lot more calming to stand outside on the snowy lawn, breathing in the crisp November air. As the day warmed, the air wasn't as harsh as it had been a few hours or so ago; George tugged at his scarf about his neck, thankful, at least, that he still had his outer wear. He couldn't bear heading up to the dormitory again, at the risk of facing his brother, his traitorous twin...

_Why did you have to do this to me, Fred?_

He allowed his angry thoughts to simmer and cool. He knew he shouldn't have burst out like that, but it had been so sudden ... George shook his head. No one could be expected to tolerate it, to have it sprung on them like that. Was it so hard for everyone to just leave him be?

Snow crunched underfoot as he moved off, allowing the lope of his steps to keep his mind off his guilt and still smouldering grudge. The winter sun brushed his back with feeble warmth, and in its light he could dimly make out shadows. He could tell that he was passing by the beech tree he had sat under so recently; it felt like it had been ages ago that he and Fred had been plotting and laughing by the lake.

_Fred..._ He should probably head back and tell him he was sorry. But by now, Fred had surely given up on waiting on him and gone on ahead to class with Lee; he wasn't stupid enough to risk Snape's wrath on a test day. No, George would wait out the storm, and later face the confrontation, whatever the consequences.

He walked on.

Now George could vaguely see a line of shadows in front of him. It took him a moment to realize he'd reached the Forbidden Forest. He cracked a smile as the memories came back. As early as first year, he and Fred had found it amusing to sneak out into the forest, exploring between the old gnarled trees, collecting bizarre mushrooms and plants to use in their experiments, laughingly hunting down werewolves and vampires and other magical creatures. Filch had eventually caught them, of course, and had given them detention ... in the forest.

"Hello!" an airy voice called out, and George froze in his tracks. He hadn't realized someone else was there. For an instant he turned his head to the wind, in the direction of the speaker, trying to deduce their location.

"Have you come to visit the Thestrals, too?" asked the voice curiously, in that same mysterious tone. Now he recognized the speaker: it was "Loony" Luna Lovegood, a fourth year Ravenclaw. George blinked and shook his head, certain he had heard her wrong.

"Thestrals?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes," said Luna brightly, "I come and feed them every morning. They like me, I think."

George privately figured a "Thestral" was another one of her famed imaginary creatures, but he decided it best not to comment. He couldn't see a way out of his current situation – leaving now would only pose the risk that she'd wonder why he was stumbling off like a drunkard, as Fred had earlier put it so eloquently. Loony or not, he wasn't eager to take that chance.

"So, what exactly _are_ Thestrals?" he inquired, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Magical creatures, of course," Luna told him, as if commenting on the pleasant weather.

Confident in that he'd never heard of these creatures and that they really only were figments of Loony Luna's imagination, he decided to continue. "What do they look like, then?"

"Oh, you can't see them, can you?" she asked casually.

George inhaled sharply. She knew – but no. She couldn't, could she? "What?" he demanded, hoping she couldn't hear the sudden fearful thunder of his heartbeat.

"Only people who have seen death can see Thestrals," Luna explained matter-of-factly.

"Oh." George took a breath, loosening his sweaty fists. _Stop being so suspicious,_ he shook himself.

"They look kind of like winged horses," Luna continued obliviously. "They're beautiful. Oooh, here comes one now." She fell silent and George heard distinctly what sounded like a horse snorting. He narrowed his eyes, listening intently. _There's_ _nothing there. You only imagined it,_ he thought.

"I think Teyla likes you," said Luna after a moment.

"Yeah, sure," said George, playing along. Then he froze as something nudged him in the arm. He took a step back, throwing his arms out for balance. Sharply he growled, "Stop it!"

Luna giggled. "She really does like you!"

The something nosed George's arm again. This time, sure that this was a trick, he stuck out his hand. His fingers met something cold and leathery. His eyes widening, George ran his hand along what felt very much like a bony horse's head.

"This isn't funny," he said crossly, and the horse-thing snorted as if in agreement. George leaped back in surprise; it was alive! His breath catching, he reached out both hands, by touch alone ingraining the image of the beast in his mind. The Thestral stood complacently still as he ran his fingers over her muzzle, warm with her breath; her narrow head, her leathery skin taut to the bones of her jaw; her ears pricked forward and covered with a fuzz of fur. The Thestral bobbed her head slightly as he rubbed cautiously behind her ears, feeling, instead of a tousled mane, the jut of vertebrae. The Thestral – Teyla – seemed to be made entirely out of bones, and George wondered if the beast was malnourished or if that was just a quirk of the species.

"You can feed her if you want," Luna said dreamily, placing something squishy in his palm. George didn't really want to know what it was, but Teyla gave a low nicker and nosed excitedly against his fist. George at first staggered back, not expecting her forward motion; but then, grinning slightly, he offered out his flat hand.

"You want this, girl?"

The Thestral's leathery lips tickled the skin of his palm as she happily gobbled up her food. George grinned and reached up, stroking her forehead. The food gone, she settled back as he cautiously shifted around to her side – moving slowly so as not to startle her – painting the creature's image with his hands. As he predicted, her stature was bony: scaly, leathery skin clung to her frame, but along her protruding withers he also felt bunches of coiled muscle. Before her sloping back, the stretch of two large, folded wings, like those of a dragon, were brought tight to her sides. As he ran a hand wonderingly over her wings, he felt Teyla's chest rise and fall steadily beneath him, something like trust in the fact that she did not move an inch.

"People used to think that Thestrals were an omen of bad things to come," said Luna, beside him now, and Teyla nickered as she fed her something squishing wetly against her hands. "But they're actually really smart. We've got a whole herd here at Hogwarts, did you know? Hagrid takes care of them."

"Are you the only one who knows about them?" George asked, fascinated. Suddenly, Luna didn't seem so ... loony. Or maybe, he thought with a wry grin, in light of all that had happened, he was just going bonkers all the same.

"No, Harry was down here once."

"Harry Potter?" Luna must have nodded, for he didn't hear her answer. George idly rubbed his hand along Teyla's right wing when she started tossing her neck under George's hands, pawing at the ground and sending slush over his shoes. He drew back from her wing joint, nervously appealing Luna. "Did I hurt her?"

"Oh, no," Luna assured him. "She's just a bit sensitive – her wings are different sizes, see."

George cautiously felt the Thestral's bony wings and found this to be true; the left one was far larger than the right, as though it had simply forgotten to grow.

"She's young, so she might grow out of it. At least, Hagrid hopes so. Otherwise, she may never be able to fly."

"I know the feeling." George stroked Teyla's head, apparently serene again, as his thoughts lingered on Quidditch ... and if he'd ever be any shape to play again.

"I'd better get back up to the castle," said Luna after a moment. "I do need to get to Charms."

"Oh – the first bell rang a while ago," George remembered belatedly.

"Really? Oh, dear. Well," she sighed, "there's not much I can do without my textbook anyway."

George recalled, with a pang of guilt, he and Fred hiding a fourth year Charms textbook last week. Some Ravenclaw seventh years had given it to them, telling them it was for a joke ... and they had mentioned the name Loony, hadn't they?

He and Luna had something in common, he reflected. They were different, separated from everyone else. For once he felt sorry for her; what right did they all have to steal her things, anyway?

"Did you try looking in the suit of armour, by the entrance to the fourth floor corridor?" he asked, glancing downward and shuffling his feet.

"No, I haven't, actually. That's a good idea, though. I should check."

He heard her heading off through the snow. George hesitated; he didn't know how long it would take him to find his way back to the school alone.

"Wait, Luna!" he called, and he heard her pause. "I'll come with you."

"That would be very kind of you."

He gave Teyla a final rub on the nose, hearing her nicker in content, before hurrying after her footsteps through the snow.

"I think you're very nice," Luna said thoughtfully as they walked, George concentrating on her footsteps and voice to guide him. "Most people seem to think I'm a bit odd." She sounded amused, as if this were all a game she was playing with everyone else. "They take my things sometimes, but I don't mind. They always come back in the end. It's only, sometimes I need them."

She was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, but I don't even know your name."

"I'm George. George Weasley," he supplied. He paused before adding, "And Luna?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks." He didn't know if she understood the meaning behind his gratitude, but her presence right now was enough.

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	9. Hold

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 – **Edits. Finally, we see George's initial reaction to his blindness, told through his own eyes... ;) Okay, sorry, I just had to say it.

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**Chapter 9 - Hold**

_"Just let me hold you while you're falling apart._

_Just let me hold you so we both fall down."_

_-Ever the Same, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

The corridors were almost silent; classes were in session, and only the occasional hurried patter of a late student's footsteps disrupted the drone of lectures drifting through open classroom doors. The Gryffindor five had to be careful; they knew they couldn't afford to be caught outside of class.

Lee sighed as he dragged his feet heading back up to the Gryffindor common room, their arranged meeting place. He hadn't seen George anywhere; silently he hoped the others had better luck, for knowing the blind Weasley was wandering off somewhere on his own left an odd twist of fear in his stomach.

The revelation that his best friend was, well, _blind_ had come as a complete and utter shock ... George hadn't ever said anything, or shown any sign that he was, that he could remember, anyway. Lee wracked his brains as he walked, trying to remember some gesture, some odd behaviour that might have given it away, but to no avail. Sure, George had seemed a bit strange since the match, yet Lee had only figured he was still smarting from the fact that those Slytherins had gotten the better of him, or that his injury was acting up, or something. He would've never, in a million years, thought of _this_...

Lee paused, pulled from his thoughts, on his way down the fourth floor hallway; he could hear footsteps ahead. He glanced around quickly for an escape route and noticed a line of armoured knights standing proud sentinel along his right. Without thinking, he lunged for shelter behind one of the suits of armour, its head creaking around to peer down at him.

He'd moved just in time, for at that moment two people came into view. Crouched behind the knight, struggling to keep control of his harsh breathing and thundering heart, Lee tried to keep himself as unobtrusive as possible. The figures neared; Lee, breath bated, could only see their legs, but from the black robes billowing around them they were obviously students.

A long breath escaped him in relief; Lee released a mad vision that their favourite hook-nosed Professor swooped down and found him skipping out on his exam, and, now grinning at his own foolishness, he shifted about to emerge from hiding. From his new angle, however, he finally caught a glimpse at the students' faces, and the color drained from his face. It was George – and he was with that Loony Lovegood girl.

Lee cursed under his breath, ducking back down behind the knight's knees; he'd promised Fred he wouldn't confront George without him. He'd have to risk it and make a run for it. If he was quick enough, maybe he could escape George's notice; but Lovegood wouldn't be as oblivious, and even if George was his best friend, he wasn't particularly looking forward to facing him alone in his current stormy mood.

Before Lee could make his move, however, the two made their way directly toward him. Lee winced and drew back further into the shadows, hoping maybe if he stayed still they'd ignore him.

His hopes were false, however. A moment later, a hand had reached behind the knight and grasped him by the shoulder, pulling him out of his hiding place. Lee winced as he stumbled to his feet and found himself looking up into George Weasley's face.

"What were you doing down there?" demanded George. From his cautious tone, Lee couldn't deduce if he was still as angry as he had been before; he decided to play his cards carefully. He swallowed hard and met George's blue eyes; something wrenched in his chest to realize George's steady gaze was directed at a point somewhere above Lee's head.

"I – how did you find me?" Lee asked, the first words that came to mind. Immediately he winced; that wasn't perhaps the best way to start a conversation with George. The Weasley twin's reaction surprised him; George loosened his grip on Lee's shoulder and his face slipped into an almost familiar lopsided grin.

"You mean you never realized how loud you were? Honestly, mate, I could hear your cloak rustling halfway down the hall."

Lee gawked at him, mouth moving wordlessly. "I – well – all right, you caught me." He grimaced, though inwardly his mind was buzzing with sudden wonder. He'd been trying his best to mask his presence – either he was losing his touch, or George was bloody psychic.

Lee noted Lovegood glanced between the two of them with curiosity in her widened silvery eyes, and he quickly diverted the subject – God knew George didn't need anyone else catching on. "I've been looking all over for you," he said instead. As this sank in he winced at his use of words, hoping he hadn't inadvertently set George off.

Something flickered briefly in George's face, but when he spoke his tone was considerably lighter than their earlier confrontation. "Bit of a funny place to look, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, I thought you were a teacher, mate," admitted Lee, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly.

At this, George grinned. "Am I really that terrifying?"

Lee looked thoughtfully at him, allowing a grin to creep up his face. It seemed he had recovered from that morning's bout, and for an instant, it was old times again: the two of them grinning and laughing over a prank well accomplished, still euphoric with the adrenaline of a close escape from Filch or Snape.

"I thought you were a Nargle," interceded Lovegood in all seriousness, and Lee glanced at her with raised eyebrows. The blond girl cast about the hall with a dreamy smile twitching her lips. "They like to hide and jump out at unsuspecting victims."

Lee didn't know what to say to such a thing, and he gave George an incredulous _what-is-she-doing-here_ glance. A moment later he remembered with a guilty pang that George couldn't see him.

"Luna, your book should be down there, last knight before the door," said George suddenly, pointing down the row of knights. Lovegood brightened.

"Oh, thank you." She skipped along the corridor, humming some idle tune under her breath, her radish-shaped earrings jingling and flashing as she moved.

An unnerved eye on her departure, Lee leaned closer to George, murmuring in a low tone, "What're you doing, hanging out with Loony?"

"Don't call her that," said George idly. "She's really nice, actually."

Lee snorted. "What did you overdose on, mate?"

"I'm serious!" urged George. "Just give her a chance, would you?"

Lee just shook his head, deeming this a matter he really didn't want to know about. "Anyway, we should get back to the common room. Fred'll be waiting. We've been searching for you all morning."

George hesitated, and Lee saw the storm clouds pass in his eyes. "Fred – is he ... is he mad at me?"

Lee blinked; that certainly hadn't been what he'd expected to hear, but as was becoming more and more evident, George was unnervingly capable of catching him off-guard. "Of course not," he said, trying to keep his voice upbeat. "None of us can blame you for what happened, all right?"

George nodded slowly as Luna Lovegood approached them again, beaming from ear to ear; she clutched a battered blue Charms book to her chest. "Thank you so much, George!" she smiled.

"Yeah – no problem," said George distractedly, as Lee raised an eyebrow at him. What was going on between them, anyway? Ah, well – he'd ask Fred later. Maybe George's mind _had_ been affected...

The bell echoed around them then, making the trio jump; in the distance Lee could hear the murmuring thunder of students leaving their classes for a well-deserved break. George, he noted, was glancing around nervously at the still mercifully deserted corridor, but Lee knew it would not be for long. They had to hurry.

"Let's get upstairs," he suggested, and he thought he saw a flicker of relief in George's gaze; the redhead nodded.

"Yeah, we should ... Luna, maybe we'll bump into each other again sometime, all right?"

"Yes, I think I would enjoy that," she said, and began to drift off in the opposite direction; Lee shook his head, bemused.

"C'mon."

George started haltingly after him down the hall, and Lee strived to keep his pace steady enough that George could keep up with him. Reaching the platform of the moving staircases, Lee rounded on his friend.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" he asked with raised brows as they waited for the stairs to lumber toward them.

George shook his head. "Nah, doesn't matter."

The stairs rumbled to a stop in front of them, and a tide of students passed by in the other direction, jostling them. Lee caught to George's sleeve to keep him next to him as he saw pale panic rising in his face; Lee waited until the coast was clear before releasing his grip, breathing out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

George gave him a nod, unable to speak, and fumbled for the railing. Clutching to it, he asked uncomfortably, "Er, could you walk in front of me?"

"Sure." Lee boarded the stairs, glancing back to make sure George was following right behind him, carefully feeling his way up each step. At the top he unconsciously reached for his arm again, helping George stumble across the threshold. This, Lee reckoned, was going to take some getting used to.

**·:·**

Fred had just sent a fruitless Harry, Ron, and Hermione off to class when the door to the common room creaked open and Lee clambered through. All around the forlorn sentry Fred had taken by the burning coals of the fireplace, the common room was deserted; class was in full session, and those with the luck to have a study period were making good use of it in the library or in obtaining an early lunch. Getting to his feet with a long sigh and scrubbing a hand once more over his weary temples, Fred took his time in padding over. He saw Lee pause in the entranceway, turning to help someone else through.

Fred's footsteps quickened. He caught sight of a flare of red hair; George shook off the proffered assistance and stepped into the room of his own accord. Hearing, it seemed, Fred's approaching footsteps, he turned to face him, and something like apprehension darkened his gaze.

"Hi, Fred. I found him," said Lee cheerily.

George said nothing to this banter; Fred urgently searched his expression for some indication of his thoughts, but his features were carefully blank. Fred sighed and turned. "C'mon, let's go sit down."

George didn't move; he lowered his head, and in a voice so quiet Fred nearly missed it, he mumbled, "Fred, I'm sorry."

Fred blinked in surprise, turning back on him; but George hadn't finished yet. "I ... I know I might've overreacted a bit ... I was scared, Fred, so scared that I'd lose you again..."

"Well, it's over now," Fred overrode him; there was never an end to the apologies, was there? They needed to stop treading on cat's feet around one another; he'd had enough of it, for one. He glanced at Lee. "Lee, could you...?"

He nodded, understanding the plea in Fred's eyes; the twins needed to be alone for now. Turning on his heel and offering a raised hand in farewell, he walked back out the portrait hole. When it had clicked softly shut behind him and the common room fell silent, aside from the crackle of coals in the fireplace, Fred turned to his twin.

"We bloody well should have done this early. We need to talk," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

There was the same sort of tired understanding in George's eyes. "I know."

Fred hesitated, then started off for the chairs by the fire, watching George trail him from the corner of his eye. He waited until his twin was seated, facing the fire, before sighing and sinking down himself in the big plush armchair. Balefully he regarded his brother; now that they were both here, the words he had long mulled over had wonderfully chosen to fly from his mind. Now he fumbled desperately for something that would not make him sound like a complete prat; but George beat him to it.

"It's all right," George said, and Fred glanced up in surprise. How could he have known...? "I know what I did was stupid. I understand why you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad, George," he answered quickly, straightening in his seat, sure to keep his voice soft. "Really. It's just – well, I'm mad at myself, I guess. I haven't been a very good brother to you, lately," he finished a bit lamely.

"You've done more than enough, Fred," murmured George, picking at a fray in the arm of his chair. "You stayed with me when no one else would."

Fred wanted to argue against this statement, remembering the fervour and the worry that Lee, Hermione, Harry, and – yes, even Ron – had displayed that morning; but George wasn't yet finished. "You don't have to help me more than that, Fred. I don't want you to help me do everything. I'm still me, I can do this alone."

"If you want to do things alone, you're gonna have to get help learning first," Fred informed him matter-of-factly. "Like, how d'you expect to read or write?"

George snorted. "It's a lost cause. Give it up, Fred."

Fred shook his head, reaching into his book bag. He thumped down the book Hermione had given him on the table between them. Its leather-bound cover glinted in faded gold letters, 'Braille'. Beneath was a series of raised dots. Curiously George reached out a hand, feeling the cover of the book. He raised an eyebrow at Fred.

"Hermione gave me this," Fred answered in reply to George's sceptical look. "Everything about Braille. You know what that is, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, but I'd never thought –"

Fred leaned in, a familiar scheming look on his face. "I spoke to her again after you left. She's willing to teach you, if you'll accept. And she's found a mighty interesting translation spell that might be able to transfigure your textbooks."

He sat back, smirking at the look of wonder and awe on George's face.

"Damn that Hermione," he said, pretending to look cross. "Just when I'd gotten out of school work!"

Fred laughed; it felt good, almost like old times. "So we're decided, then." George nodded, reaching for his bag. "I'll keep it for now," offered Fred, scooping up the book. "Just in case someone sees it, I'll transfigure it to look like homework or something."

"All right," agreed George, starting to stand up.

Without conscious reaction, Fred reached up and caught his elbow. "Wait – one last thing." George raised an eyebrow but nevertheless sat back down, eyeing his twin with his head cocked slightly to the side.

Fred sighed, dropping his hand, and conceded in a mumble, "I'm no mind reader, George. I can't finish your sentences if – if you don't tell me anything. Honestly, I don't know what you've gone through, what you're going through..." Fred hated how his voice started to tremble. "Just ... know that you can talk to me. Please." _So that this doesn't have to happen again,_ he finished silently.

George had started fidgeting with his hands in his lap, his gaze downcast; but then quite suddenly he raised his head and, for a moment, stared straight at his brother. "Do you want to know from the beginning, then?"

His voice was perfectly even; Fred stared into his expression, but George's previous challenge was gone. Swallowing hard, Fred nodded – before he remembered and voiced hoarsely, "Yeah. From the beginning."

George settled his hands beneath his chin, his gaze distant once more as he began, with calm certitude, Fred absorbing each pensive word.

**·:·**

_"George! Look out -!"_

_His twin's voice was raw with panic; at the sound he reacted, making to turn about. But it was too late – he saw it in the flash of desperation in Fred's eyes as he lunged, Beater bat in hand. And then George heard the telltale roar behind him._

_It happened in a disjointed flash of seconds: an instant of pain at the base of his skull, searing as though his head had split open; dark spots flared across his vision as George jerked forward not of his own accord; then he fell into the darkness, never sure if he had caught the broom handle in front of him or not._

_The next hours were nothingness. George drifted without distinguishing wakefulness from sleep, for everything was cloaked in the same darkness; if he dreamed, he couldn't remember it now. His head hurt: it throbbed cruelly, counting the minutes, the hours of silence with its beat._

_After a time he regained some sort of awareness of his surroundings: he twitched his fingers and found starchy blankets beneath him. He inhaled and tasted that overly clean hospital atmosphere. He tried to open his eyes._

_The darkness swallowed him again._

_George couldn't have known how much time had passed when voices overhear stirred him from his stupor. All at once the noises hit him, like fireworks for all his pounding headache. Wincing, he strived to return to that welcome unconsciousness – where he didn't have to think about what had happened, why he was lying here in pain and darkness – when one voice, louder than the others, held his attention._

_"George. Is he all right?"_

_Fred. George clung to that thought like a lifeline: Fred, Fred was here. His fingers twitched again as he longed to reach out, to see his brother again – but in the darkness, how could he possibly find Fred?_

_Madam Pomfrey's hushed voice conferred with the others. "He's sleeping now – oh, all right, but only for a minute. Come this way – quietly, now."_

_Footsteps clomped nearer. They were many – the Gryffindor team, George registered distantly, recognizing the sympathetic whispers of his friends. Fred didn't say anything else; was he still there? If George's throat wasn't so dry he would have called out to him. Fred..._

_"Look at those bandages," someone – Katie Bell – whispered in horror. They were all murmuring among themselves, wishing him a swift recovery, Angelina saying something about how they had won the match for him..._

_George wished they would leave him alone: his head was just about to explode, and he wanted to see Fred..._

_Soon enough Madam Pomfrey came by to hustle the team out, muttering about how her patient needed rest. George listened, eyes closed, as they trooped out of the room and the door closed softly behind them. Then Madam Pomfrey's footfalls moved off, to her office, he guessed._

_In the silence he breathed again. He couldn't stand this darkness much longer; with that conviction he summoned what strength he had and forced his eyes open._

_Nothing but black met him. An odd fear was rising in his chest, and George, his heart pounding, tried again – open your eyes, he ordered himself. But no matter how hard he struggled, nothing but darkness encompassed his gaze._

_His breathing laboured now with terror: it registered then, at the back of his mind, but he fought back that whisper of doubt, not wanting to believe it. Instead George twisted over onto his side, burying his face in his pillow, drawing minute comfort from the fact that he could still feel the fabric rough and frayed beneath his fingers even as he floundered in the darkness within his own head._

**·:·**

Fred was staring at his twin with something like horror etched across his expression. George was no longer looking at him; he was poking at a fray in the arm of his chair. Clearing his throat, Fred glanced away.

"Why ... why didn't you tell Madam Pomfrey?" he forced out the question that had lingered for a long time at the back of his mind. "She could've told you..."

George's lips twisted at a wry smile. "Why d'you think? I was terrified. I couldn't face anyone knowing then, and even now ... even now I can't."

"I know," Fred cut him off quietly, reaching over to touch a hand to George's shoulder. His twin trembled beneath his touch, and Fred smiled bitterly to think of how much it must have cost him to tell his story. "And that's all right. I'm with you now, I'm always with you. And – and the others, them, too. Lee and Ron and Harry and Hermione – they all want to help you."

George drew a long breath, suddenly blinking very hard. "Thank you."

Fred smiled, this time a true smile, as he stood up and stretched with his joints popping from sitting so long. "Now then ... shall we see what's for lunch?"

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	10. Fall

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**12/05/10 – **Edits.

* * *

**Chapter 10 - Fall**

_"Help me if I fall_

_Don't let me go_

_You just give me the strength_

_To guide me."_

_-If I Fall, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

The rest of the week blazed by, and Thursday arrived cold and dreary. It was the day George had been dreading, though he hadn't mentioned it to either Fred or Lee. Both seemed certain that the worst was over, that life could continue almost as normal, filled with their usual flair for excitement and the laughter that rang the rafters of the common room. Of course, the two helped him through his classes and showed him how to perform new spells; as of yet, their deception had slipped beneath the radar of even their most finicky professors.

All the same, George still refused to go into the Great Hall, and so often spent dinner in the kitchens, where he could eat in peace. Falling into such a comfortable regime with Fred, George could almost delude himself in that same welcome security.

No matter, George's thoughts always seemed to return to dwell on Quidditch, and a sickly feeling arose in his stomach. He didn't want to go out onto the pitch that night and make a fool of himself. The team ... what would they think when they saw his pathetic flailing ... What would they _say_? Their captain's disappointed face loomed in his mind and George heard her say, shaking her head, "What do you mean, blind? We need you out there, George, the Cup's as good as ours this year..."

At lunch, he finally cracked and told Fred and Lee his worries. They were sitting in the kitchen as house-elves bustled noisily around them, each digging into a steaming dish of shepherd's pie.

Fred seemed to think over his commentary for a moment. "Well, it'll be dark, won't it? No one'll see you."

"It's not like that!" George burst out in frustration; Fred never seemed to _get_ it. Sometimes he wondered how his brother could be so stupidly oblivious... With a long irritated sigh, George raked his fists through his hair. "I don't think I'll be able to _fly_, Fred. And how'm I supposed to hit Bludgers if I can't even bloody _see_ them?"

"Relax," said Fred firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder; George's muscles had bunched up in tension, and he flinched slightly at his brother's touch. Fred pressed on, determined. "Remember, you're good at Quidditch, even on an off day, George. You'll be fine."

George just shook his head, his thoughts sinking back into icy despair. _That was before,_ the doubtful voice echoed in his head. _But now... _His damp fists clenched on the edges of his seat and he wondered, wildly, if Angelina would take pity on him if he choked down some of their Fever Fudge after dinner. Probably not – the twins had already let slip their ingenious little sick-inducing treats earlier during October in offering to get her and Alicia out of a Defence exam, and they likely wouldn't have forgotten so soon.

"Tell you what," said Fred suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts with the earnest note in his voice. "Why don't we head out an hour early? We'll have loads of time to practice on our own. And I can tell Angelina to go easy on you – that you're still recovering."

George nodded mechanically, swallowing back his fear, which seemed enough to satisfy Fred for the moment. In the silence, however, George's heart drummed double its rhythm in his chest; the hour loomed closer and closer, yet there was no escaping his fate; George closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples, where a familiar pulsing had started since that morning. If it turned into a bloody migraine right before the match, well, that Fever Fudge was looking pretty inviting...

With one ear he tuned in idly to Fred and Lee's renewed debate over a particularly dire History lesson that morning, trying futilely to distract himself from the rising sick feeling in his throat.

**·:·**

That evening, Fred and George descended the sloping snowy lawn to the Quidditch pitch almost immediately after dinner; the Great Hall had still been warm and clattering with chatter when they passed, assuring them of a good hour of time alone before the rest of the team ventured out to rejoin them.

Broomstick slung comfortably over his shoulder, his other hand clenched about one handle of the hefty Quidditch crate carted between the two of them, Fred glanced nervously across at his brother. He didn't need George to tell him he was worried; since breakfast George had seemed a bit jumpy – more so than usual, anyway – and Fred couldn't help but notice how earlier he had pushed aside his nearly-untouched dinner, mumbling that they should get started. Now, in the fiery light on the horizon, his face was aglow and ghostly; his freckles stood out garishly from his cheeks, and to Fred, it seemed, he was struggling not to throw up.

With a sudden need to reassure him, Fred broke the silence. "You're going to do fine," he said, even as his voice trembled a little – he fervently hoped George hadn't noticed. "Listen, even if you mess up, there's no one around to see it, all right?"

This news didn't come as particularly comforting to his brother, who shook his head slightly with a low sigh; his eyes directed at the snow crunching beneath his boots, George mumbled, "I'm going to resign after practice."

"No, you're not!" Fred stopped in his tracks, rooted to the spot by his negativity. "You're a valuable player any day! Angelina won't let you quit. Besides," Fred went on, appealing him with an earnest stare which George ignored in stony silence, "you can't expect me to play with a random someone else as Beater."

George didn't answer to his feeble attempt at humour, for at that moment they arrived at the tall stadium. The colourful stands were brushed with a coat of snow; yet high above still gleamed the proud golden hoops, three on either side of the pitch, and despite himself Fred's heart gave a leap, as it always did in anticipation of taking to the air.

"Right, then," said Fred, as he stopped short near the center of the playing field; he and George deposited the crate with a thump, from inside the Bludgers offering a disgruntled grumble. Fred didn't miss George's sudden twitch, or how his white knuckles clenched tightly to his broom handle. Fred found it suddenly hard to swallow and directed his gaze at his feet. "Let's start by just flying around for a bit ..." he offered, "... you know, a warm-up."

George didn't protest, and shuffling about in the snow adjusted the tilt of his broomstick, then throwing one leg over it; Fred followed suit, his mouth dry, and for a moment hesitated before calling them both to take off.

He hated to do this. George was obviously terrified – did they have to try flying again so soon, when the scars were still so fresh in both of their minds? Hell, really, what was keeping him from letting George claim sick for this week's practice, and thus take the time to recuperate his strength? Fred shook his head, discarding his doubts with a long sigh.

_It's the only way,_ he reminded himself. George had to fly again, or else the team would suspect something was seriously wrong. Besides...

_George needs this, too. He needs to fly again – to live again, and not in bloody fear of everyone and anything._ But suddenly that plaintive thought seemed a lot more like a selfish excuse. He should be protecting his brother, not forcing him further out of his shelter than George felt prudent...

George, as if sensing his thoughts, turned back to him. "Let's get this over with," he said quietly. His jaw clenched with determination, though his wide blue eyes told Fred otherwise. "Please."

Fred nodded, then caught himself, clearing his throat to rasp out, "All right." He gripped the handle with both hands, seeing George tense across from him on his own broomstick. He offered a feeble grin and hoped the jovial note carried to his voice as he called out, "Let's go!" He kicked off from the firm ground, snow showering off his heels, and shot several feet straight up in the air.

The brush of air felt good on Fred's face. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing the familiar rush that came with flying to seep through him, a buoyancy rising in a bubble in his chest; he had a sudden mad desire to crow a laugh, to race the wind itself. Energized, he reopened his eyes and glanced about. It was a rather calm evening; the sky was darkening, the first glimmers of stars visible in the deep velvet overhead, and a light breeze toying his bangs.

He turned his broom and looked over at George. "All right?"

His twin nodded, clinging tightly with whitened knuckles to his broom; he didn't seem to be able to speak.

"Right," said Fred, hoping once they started moving that terrible fear would leave George's wide eyes. "Let's do a few laps."

**·:·**

Saying George was terrified was an understatement.

All week, even without seeing, he'd been able to make his way around by touch and hearing alone, and he'd always been able to right himself if he accidentally ran into something; and if Fred was beside him, he was always able to warn him, to stop him with a subtle tug on his sleeve, if he started veering off course.

Up here, however,who-_knew-how-bloody-high-up_ from the ground, he had absolutely nothing to rely on to guide him around. If he collided with the towers, or spiralled into the hoops, or dove too far... George forced the unpleasant images from his mind. He momentarily closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to center himself past the fear, past the pain, past the memories. _Focus._ He could do this; he _had_ to.

Reopening his eyes, George then strained his vision, searching for some telltale shadow or light to guide him. It had to be near sundown; bright splotches flared across the darkness. It wasn't much, but...

Then he heard it: a loud flapping off to his left.

It dawned on him then. _Fred's cloak._ He could imagine his brother floating next to him, waiting for him to follow, impatiently itching to fly. Some of his former confidence returning with that kindle of hope, George turned and slowly eased his broom after his brother.

**·:·**

They started out slowly, circling one end of the pitch. Fred kept an eagle's eye on George's progress in his shadow, but so far he seemed to be doing quite well. He followed Fred in his laps around the field, always taking the turns only a split-second after him, guided by some signal in his brother's presence. The only problem was when Fred stopped; each time, George would almost crash into him. He didn't have the heart to critique George on this, however, and it did not deter greatly from his progress.

"You're doing great!" Fred called out after one such stop. They were now drifting side-by-side near the goal hoops at the far left end of the pitch. Grinning, Fred clapped a numbed hand to his brother's shoulder. "And you said you couldn't fly!"

"I can't fly _alone_," elaborated George, eyes downcast, "but I can _hear_ you and _follow_ you."

"Well, that's fine," said Fred reassuringly, his spirits swelling at how well George was progressing. _I knew you could do it, mate._ "There'll be six of us here for you to follow."

George made a small noise in his throat that wasn't quite agreement – but Fred wasn't prepared to argue on the subject. Now drifting slightly away from him, Fred wheeled his broom around to face the empty length of the pitch, the moaning wind cutting across their path and ruffling his hair. His tensed muscles itched to race full-out and test the limits of his broom; that was the thrill of flying, to move as swiftly as the feral birds that arced and cart-wheeled in the sky.

_That won't help George, you idiot,_ Fred admonished, shaking himself from his sudden reverie. Nevertheless the feeling still prickled his fingertips; his gaze wandered to his twin, hovering unknowingly beside him. Well... _It's worth a try, isn't it?_

Longing won over common sense and with a small grin itching his lips he implored his brother. "Mind if we speed things up a bit?"

Frowning slightly, George considered this notion; he, too, turned about and faced into the wind, sightlessly staring down the field. Finally he murmured, decisively, "Straight down the pitch. You go first."

Fred's grin widened, and he promised himself to thank George later for granting him this small liberty. He leaned forward, unable to resist yelling, "Race you!" as he shot off, as quickly as a lit firework blazing into the darkening sky.

Fred hurtled down the pitch, nearly flung flat over the handle of his broom, his fists cold against the wind's lashing fingers, his cloak whipping out behind him. His eyes narrowed against the pierce of wind against his face, roaring in his ears, and suddenly he was laughing at the pure rush of adrenaline. His thoughts and worries were left behind as he raced away, for once completely, absolutely free...

A sudden red streak in the corner of his eye made him start, and with his eyes streaming he spared a glance sideways; he did a double take, a grin tugging his lips. George was beside him now, matching his wild gait, and quickly gaining further; he was staring straight ahead, a look of intense focus furrowing his face, his teeth digging into his lower lip. Fred bit back a shout of congratulations – he couldn't distract him, not now.

Then George pulled ahead, hurtling down the field. Fred grinned in spite of himself at the challenge, throwing himself flat onto his broom. They raced neck to neck for the opposite end of the pitch. From down below they were nothing more than blazing streaks of red – twin firecrackers. Neither had any thought on their mind but the wild rush of the chase.

As they came in range of the hoops, Fred peeled off first, straightening to ease his course; George heard him and copied the gesture, a bit more slowly. For a moment they hung there, fighting to catch their gasping breath in the frigid air. Fred couldn't help himself and reached over, catching his arm around George's shoulders in a half-hug. His eyes were shining in wild exhilaration. "That was bloody _brilliant_!"

George, despite himself, offered up a smile. "I did it, Fred... I did it... I beat you!"

Fred shook his head and laughed, reaching over to ruffle George's windswept hair – ignoring his squawk of protest. His heart was lightened even as it was pounding with adrenaline; still grinning, he gasped, "I think we can work with the Bludgers now."

George faltered, Fred sensing his brief moment of hesitation through the arm still comfortably wrapped around his shoulders. His expression softened slightly as he bolstered, "We'll start with just one. You'll hear it a mile away."

"What if ... what if it hits me...?" George murmured, gaze dropping. Hesitation made him fall back into his fear; but Fred's mind was still clear with the exhilaration, the pride in George's eyes as they finished their race. He knew, in a rising feeling, that they had to do this; that George _could_ do this, because the old George Weasley wouldn't give up, wouldn't back down for anything.

Fred reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "I'll be right here, all right?" George nodded, and Fred, catching the steeled look back in his eyes, turned and dipped into a dive; he sensed more than saw George on his heels, imitating his every adjustment. Fred landed first, absorbing the impact in his knees as his boots sank into the snow. Though he slowed his broom, George still hit the ground much harder and unevenly; Fred instinctively caught his shoulder as he stumbled, righting him. He didn't miss the flicker of a shamed grimace pass over his twin's face, but he tried to ignore it.

Fred cleared his throat and turned away, assured George could take care of himself for now. "I'm gonna take out the Bludger now."

Fred left George standing there, stepping over to where they had earlier abandoned the crate. Swiftly he kicked it open and examined the contents: two black Bludgers framed the Quaffle, humming darkly from within their constraints; the container bucked occasionally as they struggled for freedom.

Suddenly, staring at them for the first time since the match, an unprecedented wave of feeling arose in his throat and he swallowed, thickly. One of these ... One of these foul weapons had done this to his brother... He chose the leftmost one and as he crouched over it, working at the latch and fumbling slightly with fingers numbed by cold, his eyes roved unconsciously over it in search of bloodstains. He saw nothing incriminating, but even so, an ill feeling stirred in his stomach, and he began to regret his earlier fervour. Was this such a good idea after all, to make George face this so soon? Now he understood why his twin was so afraid.

His words came back to haunt him. _I'll be right here. _He had been there the last time, hell, he had been _right beside_ him. Even then, he had been helpless to prevent George's injury...

Fred shook his head, forcing such black thoughts from his mind; he couldn't hold himself to blame, he reminded himself for what seemed the hundredth time. For how many years had they gone about so naive to danger, laughing and bantering as they knocked the growling Bludgers between one another? And yet all it took was one accident to make them cringe and cower in fear...

With a long sigh Fred resigned himself to his task. He had to keep his promise, or George would think he was being a pansy ... No, all he could do was hope, fervently, that he could protect him this time around. Swallowing hard, he unlatched the Bludger and instinctively jumped back as the black ball rocketed up into the sky.

The die was cast.

**·:·**

George stiffened when he heard the Bludger tearing off, like a low rumble of thunder against the still night air. A chill went down his spine, though he fought vehemently against the fear threatening to choke him. He didn't want to do this, _oh, God,_ he didn't...

Footsteps crunched nearer over the snow and George shifted toward the sound, forcing himself to raise his head and plaster on something of a grimacing smile. Inwardly, though, he wanted nothing more than to run back up to the safety of their dormitory and cower beneath the blankets, as if he were six years old again and a thunderstorm raged outside.

_I don't want to die... _The thought floated unbidden through his mind, and abruptly icy fear gripped his chest. _Oh, God, Fred, _please...

"We're going back up." Fred's usually confident voice sounded a bit uncertain this time, and that made George's stomach churn with unease. He shut his eyes tightly as they both shuffled, mounting their brooms; then he heard Fred kick off and hastened to follow suit.

Wind rushed by as his stomach jolted in a familiar fashion, reminding him that he was now drifting ten, twenty more feet above the ground. George forced back his sickened thoughts and concentrated; he could hear the wind whipping against Fred's clothes, and something else: a distant grumble of thunder, weaving in and out of his range of hearing as it shot across the pitch.

Panic rose up once more in his throat and all his muscles were screaming for him to move; to get out of the way! He struggled to take a long rasp of breath, his mind working furiously to pinpoint the location of the sound – which was growing louder by the moment. His heart thundered as quickly as that of a cornered rabbit, a raptor swooping down on his position.

"It's coming," said Fred from his right, his voice anchoring him to the present; he grit his teeth, hefting the bat that Fred wordlessly had passed into his hands. He hovered, listening, calculating as the sound roared in from his left.

_Now!_

George chose his moment and reacted, swinging out as viciously as he could. His flailing met only air; he'd missed the Bludger entirely, which hurtled by inches in front of his face a split-second later, the heat grazing his nose. George jerked back in surprise, almost losing his grip on his broom in the process. Panting, he clung tight to the handle with sweaty palms, glancing about with deadened eyes for his brother.

It would have been comical, had it been anyone but George. Fred smashed away the Bludger that came raging at him and looped around George, his brother tilting his head to follow his course. "A good first attempt," Fred tried to reassure him, his own voice trembling a little. "Here it comes again, now."

George didn't answer him; his gaze was set stonily ahead, where he could hear the whistling arc of the Bludger slowing and reversing back in their direction, the buzzing growing steadily louder, like an angered bee. He swallowed hard and raised his bat.

_All right._ He would hit it this time. He'd have to time it just right ... wait an extra moment ... He _could_ do this, goddamnit!

The Bludger zoomed nearer ... and nearer – and in a sudden panic George registered without conscious thought that it was coming too fast, too close! His mind flashed with unpleasant images: God, it'd crash into him head-on...!

Losing his timed focus, George swung wildly at nothing; the air radiated with heat as the Bludger, unencumbered, roared in on him –

In a last act of wild desperation George threw himself to the side, intending to perform a Sloth Grip Roll to get out of the way. He misjudged his mad grab for the broom handle, however, and only one hand caught its mark; he let out a wild yell as he felt the world spin around him. The Bludger whooshed harmlessly overhead in a blaze of heat, but George hardly noticed: he now dangled upside-down from his broom, clinging on with one slipping hand.

He swung his other hand up, groping fruitlessly for a firm grip; and then sweaty fingers relinquished their hold. George let out a yell as he was suddenly falling –

Wind roared in his ears, his eyes were streaming; all too well he could see himself slamming into the ground, nothing left but a pancake; what a terribly pathetic end for a Weasley. All because he'd been so stupid as to think he could _fly_...!

At first George hardly took note as his descent slowed, then stopped entirely; strong arms closed around his middle and pulled him back upward. The wind's roar still echoing in his ears, George clung tightly to his saviour, unable to do anything else, hardly able to think beyond the trembling of his limbs.

"It's all right!" Fred shouted over the roaring wind. "I've got you, George. Just hang on!"

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	11. Breaking

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: I know some of you are wondering how it is possible for George to be playing Quidditch. I won't deny that it's extremely dangerous; however, George still can "see" shadows and light, and he has his heightened other senses to help him. Well, in any case, this _is_ fanfiction, so the limits can be stretched a bit. ;)

**10/04/11 – **Edits. I tried to reinforce the realism of George's situation here, so expect a few changes to the plot in future chapters...

* * *

**Chapter 11 - Breaking**

_"You're breaking me in _

_And this is how we will end _

_With you and me bent." _

_-Bent, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

George lay limp in his arms as Fred hefted him back up to his broom. If that had been a scare for Fred – whose heart thundered wildly against his ribs – it was nothing compared to what George must have been feeling.

Fred could feel his twin trembling in his grasp; George's face was ghostly pale, and there was a sheen of dried tears across his cheeks; when he blinked slowly, with a shallow rasp of breath, further water trickled from his eyes. Slowly, Fred coaxed him to clamber back onto his own broom, though he still maintained his firm grip around his brother as though afraid in a moment he would be wrenched away from him again. Perhaps George felt the same icy fear, for even hunched once more over his own broom, his fists remained clenched in the front of Fred's robes, his face half-pressed against Fred's chest. Both of them were gasping as though they'd just run a race.

After a long moment, George at last raised his head with a shaky breath. His eyes did not quite focus on his brother, but were fixated at a point somewhere over his head. Fred's heart wrenched at the wide, terrified look in George's eyes. _Oh, George… _what had he been thinking? Fred had an urge to viciously hit himself over the head with his bat, if only for causing that terrible fear in his gaze; _Stupid, stupid Fred... _God, what if he hadn't reacted so fast...? What _if_...?

Fred's silent berating skidded to a halt as his twin spoke.

"Not again. Please," George whispered hoarsely, averting his gaze once more. Instinctively Fred tightened his arm around his brother.

"We won't," he promised softly, then hesitating a moment; with an almost plaintive note in his voice, he finished, "I'm sorry."

George wasn't ready for this – why hadn't he realized that? It was so bloody obvious, yet he'd gotten overexcited when George started out fine. He should have listened to him instead of forcing him into this...! _Why the hell did I take out the Bludger so soon?_ Fred's hands tightened into fists as he vehemently swore to do things _right_ next time. Every time he blundered, he only made things harder for the both of them: first losing his patience with George, then the whole book incident, and now _this..._

_I'm sorry, George,_ he repeated silently. _Next time, I'll listen to you. Next time, I'll be sure you're ready first._

But then, glancing down at the pale and shaken boy clutching to the front of his robes as a child would a security blanket, Fred swallowed back an unwelcome feeling in his stomach. George couldn't even contact the Bludgers; he'd seen his panic, his wild guessing. As is ... would George ever be able to play again, never mind be prepared to?

Fred shook his head to dislodge that particular fear. He'd think of the long term when he had to – for now, however, he had larger issues on his mind. "George?" he pressed, gently.

"I want to go back..." George's muffled voice came from against his shirt. "Let's go back to the dorm, Fred..."

Fred, one arm about his trembling shoulders, could do nothing more than silently agree; shifting cautiously about, he kept one arm holding George against him, the other gingerly guiding their broomsticks downward. He cast his eyes across the darkening pitch and noticed shadows shifting down below; as they neared he made out red-robed figures, each armed with a broomstick. At their head marched a dark-haired witch who, even at this distance, looked decidedly displeased.

Fred uttered a low oath and George stirred against him, raising his head.

"What is it...?"

"The team's here," he muttered. "We'd better get down for practice before Angelina murders us."

George didn't answer, but a sudden tension gripped his shoulders; Fred swallowed hard. He didn't need to be told that George wasn't in any condition for practice. He forced his gaze away with a sigh.

"Lemme talk to her, all right?" he said quietly. George nodded faintly and loosened his grip on his robes enough to touch down on his own; he stumbled as his feet hit the ground and Fred instinctively threw out an arm, catching him by the sleeve; as soon as George was steadied Fred ran ahead to rejoin the team as they fanned out onto the pitch.

"Why aren't you in uniform?" barked Angelina as soon as he drew level with the others, her hands on her hips.

"So, no welcome, then?" Fred raised his eyebrows with an air of innocence.

Angelina was far too accustomed to their facade to retort and instead glanced past him. "Is that a Bludger up there?" she demanded, surprised; indeed the lone black ball arced high in the blazing sky. Fred had nearly forgotten about it.

"Yeah, I'll get it in a minute," said Fred hurriedly, his mind on other, more important, matters. "Listen, Angelina, can I have a word?"

Her eyebrows shot up rather suspiciously, but she nodded. The two of them took a few steps away from their curious teammates.

"It's ... about George," he confided in a low tone. If possible, her eyebrows rose even higher. "He hasn't been feeling too well since the match, see..."

"How is he?" Angelina murmured, her tone softening sympathetically, glancing over to where George was still standing with the crate, looking a bit lost, clutching to both of their broomsticks.

"Well," Fred improvised deftly, "his injury really bothers him. He gets headaches really easily – he's been hurting all day, I think."

Angelina bit her lip, looking over at George again; Fred fought off a smile, knowing he was winning her over. Even with years of experience, she still couldn't fend against the Weasley charm.

"Has he told Madam Pomfrey?"

That question nearly threw him off guard; Fred sobered, and there was a note of truth in his voice when he professed, "Not yet."

She sighed, brushing her plaited locks from her eyes. "All right, I'll see what I can do. I was hoping to work on Ron's keeper skills tonight, anyway – he won't have to do too much. But you tell him to take it easy if he starts feeling ill again – I won't have him put himself out of commission any longer."

The strict demeanour of the captain they all knew returned in her last words, and Fred smiled slightly, sadly. _If only she knew..._ "Thanks," he mumbled, "you know, from him."

Angelina smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, voice softening as she added, "Try not to worry too much. He'll get better, Fred. You'll see."

_No, he won't,_ thought Fred automatically, but he forced himself to nod as though bolstered by her words. "Yeah, thanks."

Her voice regained its businesslike tone as she ordered, "Now, you two go get changed. We'll start a warm-up." She glanced up at the Bludger still careening around the field and her lips twitched. "I presume you've already done as much?"

Fred nodded.

"I'll get the Bludger. But you had better hurry up!" At this Fred raced back to get George, grinning broadly at his good fortune. _Mischief managed – your secret's safe for now, at least, George._

**·:·**

On the other hand, George was not looking forward to this practice session. He dawdled as long as possible in the change room, putting on his Quidditch robes, untying and retightening his leather gloves and boots. As he straightened out the guards on his wrists he heard the thump of Fred's footsteps pacing in front of him; George didn't look in his twin's direction.

"Come on, George. We have to stay in Angelina's good books for once," Fred chided him amiably.

"It doesn't matter if I'm resigning, anyway," George mumbled to his feet.

"I'm not letting you quit, I told you," Fred answered mulishly. "Besides, I told Angelina you're sick. She won't let you resign because of that."

His smugness was aggravating. "Shut _up_, will you?" snapped George, raising his head to glare in his direction. "You don't get it: I can't play Quidditch anymore. Or do you _want_ me to make a fool of myself out there?"

"It'd be worse if you quit, trust me. Then everyone'd know something is up." Fred's voice had gone quiet, but George didn't have the patience to consider his twin's unusual demeanour.

"I'm surprised the whole team doesn't know already. I'd have thought Harry and Ron would've told them all by now," George shot back bitterly.

"They didn't tell anyone because _I_ told them not to," Fred replied evenly. There was a faint rustle as he perched on the bench beside him, but George kept his eyes firmly on the floor. "Please, let's not fight like this. We're on the same side."

That shut George up; guiltily he recalled a distant conversation in the common room, and a promise. Fred was doing everything he could; and even frustrated as he was, it wasn't exactly fair to snap at him. George hung his head with a long-suffering sigh.

"Sorry."

"Truce, then?" said Fred jovially; George cracked a weak smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "Good. Now, if you'd have cared to listen to me, we're not even working with the Bludgers tonight. So let's go out there and play for now, and worry about that little bother some other time. We've got until February, all right?"

George nodded, reluctant; but as much as he hated to admit it, there wasn't much else he could do in his current predicament. Giving up now would only alert the whole school to his little problem; compared to that, Quidditch was the lesser of two evils. He swallowed hard and leaned forward, pressing his hands to his forehead as he mustered himself for what lay ahead.

After a long moment like that in silence, Fred sighed; then he shifted forward in a rustle of cloak, and his fingers combed gently through George's bangs; the younger twin froze, a bit puzzled by this display.

"Just ... be careful, all right?" Fred said gruffly, and for a moment George could see through his cool composure: Fred really was worried about him. This wasn't a game anymore; they had both realized that now. _Flying blind ..._ George swallowed hard. Anything could happen.

"I think I have to do this, Fred," he mumbled, hoping to reassure them both with the words. Idly he wondered what had changed his mind; but even if his heart was pounding a mile a minute, he couldn't stand to have Fred so scared. Because Fred was never scared: not of pulling a dangerous prank, not of their Mum's wrath, not of anything. George went on, his voice hesitant. "I have to show that I – I can get back up there, after what happened. I can't let anyone find out."

Fred exhaled shakily. "God, Georgie, you have no idea how you scared me back there ... This is all my fault, I took out the Bludger, I thought..." George shook his head, cutting him off.

"But I accepted," he pointed out, his voice steady now with focus; he reached out, touching a hand to Fred's arm. "That makes me responsible for – for whatever happens." He stumbled slightly on those last words, wondering if he would regret them. To cover it up, George bent to retrieve his bat.

"All right." Fred took a deep breath. "Let's play Quidditch!" he finished in forced cheerfulness as, shouldering their brooms and bats, they headed out of the change room and into the growing night.

**·:·**

The Gryffindor team was already up in the air when Fred and George reached the field. Together they mounted and shot off into the air, George carefully tailing the sound of Fred's cloak. Soon a myriad of other sounds assaulted his senses: the team, scattered around him, the faintest movement rippling wind through their robes. Panic rose up in George's throat; what if he couldn't find Fred again in the sea of sound?

"All right!" Angelina was shouting off to his left; George drifted toward her voice, listening closely to try to deduce the others' positions. He was acutely aware of even the faintest rustle or silhouette, and even though the daylight was dying, he could still faintly decipher the shadows around him from the darkness. He swallowed hard; how long, though, would that weak light last?

"Let's start out with a sort of relay," Angelina announced. "We'll pass off the Quaffle leading downfield. The last person will score and then switch to the head of the line. Got it?"

At her command, the team took off, and George, remembering previous such drills, imagined each player adopting their positions a seventh of the way down the pitch. Listening, he thought he could hear them peel off one by one, the whistle of wind dying to a murmur around him; but the sound was too faint to be sure, and a sick feeling rose in his throat.

_Fred, where are you? I need..._

"All right?" murmured a voice in his ear. George started; it was Harry. The fifth year had been flying alongside him for the last few meters; George could nearly feel his stare boring into his head.

"Yeah..." George said, swallowing hard.

"Er – I'll be right after you," Harry explained, his voice hesitant. "Fred's right before." George nodded, grateful for the cue; Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, you should stay right about there."

George stopped short at his suggestion and heard Harry fly off, only the rustle of his robes breaking the stillness. He focused on the direction he had left in, brow furrowed, knowing he'd have to aim there. Then George made a half-turn away, hoping he was now facing Fred; but over the distance he couldn't hear him.

George clenched his teeth in concentration, sweat beading on his brow. _All or nothing, now._

**·:·**

Down at the goal posts, Angelina started off the Gryffindor chain. She flew forward with the Quaffle under her arm, tossing the ball off to Katie as she drew near. Katie shot away down the field and passed to Alicia. The third Chaser roared in on Fred; he caught the Quaffle and turned.

As he flew up to George he saw his brother tense; Fred bit back his own apprehension and aimed a light, easy throw at his arms – a simple catch for anyone. George fumbled the ball only slightly with numb fingers before twisting around and flying toward Harry. Fred watched with bated breath; this was it.

George paused several feet before Harry, and he hesitated as he lifted the Quaffle, trying to judge the distance by sound alone. A moment later he released the ball, throwing it a bit too high; Harry leaned back and caught the far ball on the tips of his fingers. Fred breathed a long sigh of relief, noting over George's shoulder the same gratitude washing over Harry's pale face.

_Not bad, George._

Wheeling about, Harry zoomed toward Ron and tossed him the Quaffle; Ron fumbled it a lot worse than George had, cursing as it nearly slipped through his grip. Normally Fred would have winced and wondered how Ron could possibly be related to them. This time, however, he was thankful for Ron's mess-up, even if he knew it was selfish of him. It would keep the others focused on him instead of George, at least.

"Go score, Ron," Harry told him reassuringly. Beet-red to his ears, Ron swung around the hoops and tossed the ball through.

"Let's keep moving!" ordered Angelina from downfield. "Ron, come down here and let's start again."

At that, Ron hurried across the pitch, and the chain began again. During his turn, George missed his shot on net; he was a bit rattled, but continued nonetheless; to both his and Fred's relief, Angelina made no comment.

After the relay exercise, they all took turns shooting on Ron. From the look on his face, George was glad he couldn't see this; Fred didn't blame him. Between Angelina's cross commentary and the bolstering remarks of his teammates, Ron was not having a very good game. Fred winced as their younger brother hovered around one hoop, leaving the other two defenceless; several times already he'd fumbled and dropped the ball, to their captain's annoyance.

"Honestly, Ron, focus!" Angelina called as George flew toward the goal posts for his turn. Fred wordlessly pressed the ball into his hands, and George gave him a mutter of thanks.

Fred looked on as his brother faced the hoops, his expression tensed with concentration; Ron faced him, hanging over the rightmost hoop. His face was red but there was determination furrowing his brow; he wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of the twins, who had incessantly mocked his Quidditch skills since the beginning of the year.

After a moment George picked a direction – at random it seemed – and threw the Quaffle with all his might. Ron lunged; with a solid thud he caught the ball, grinning slightly as he realized what had happened.

Angelina flew up beside the twins, her voice making George jump: "Finally a catch, Ron, but you really don't have to go after a miss." George turned away, his face burning; Angelina moved off to talk to Katie and Alicia.

"Hey," Fred said quietly, offering a weak grin, "at least you're not a Chaser, you know?"

George didn't answer to that; but as Angelina called them down to the ground in the last feeble glow of sunset, he mumbled, "That's one practice down, at least..."

**·:·**

The sick feeling had not yet left his stomach by the time the twins retreated to the seventh year dormitory that evening; as they shuffled about, George could still feel the chill lingering in his fingertips; he was shaking, though it wasn't from the cold. George sank down on the edge of his bed, hands over his head, distantly listening to Fred and Lee bustling about the room around him.

"Oi, Lee, have you seen my pants?"

"Why the hell would I have your pants?"

"...Good point. Oi, George, have you –" Fred stopped short; both boys had suddenly gone silent, the air thickly steeped in something like guilt. George didn't answer them; his head pulsed, and in a sudden lurching motion he got to his feet, crossing the room. Fred and Lee's eyes lingered on his back as he shuffled into the washroom, fighting the sick feeling steadily rising up in his throat.

Less than a minute later found him hunched, his head over the toilet, expelling what little he had eaten that day. His throat burned; his eyes stung and he blinked hastily, scrubbing the back of his fist over his jaw.

"George ... are you all right?" Fred's voice, softer this time, came from the doorway; gone was his laughter, now concern underlying his tone. Footsteps slapped against the ceramic floor and then there was an arm around his shoulders, steadying him. Lee's voice in the background requested, nervously, "D'you need the hospital wing?"

"No." Despite his pale countenance, George's roughened voice was firm. "No ... I'm not going back there ... not again..."

Neither of them answered to that statement; George could hear the slightest hitch to his brother's breathing and knew, though he said nothing, Fred was terrified. _Goddammit._

Resolute, George closed his eyes and, levering himself against Fred, forced himself to his feet; his head spun a moment and he dragged in a sharp breath; nevertheless he pushed off from his brother's support, feeling along his left for the countertop for balance as he made his halting course toward the door.

"I'm fine..." he rasped after a moment. "Just ... something disagreed with me, most likely. Don't worry about it."

"George, are you -?"

"Yes," George snapped, hating that uncertain note in Fred's voice. In front of him, he heard Lee shuffle out of his path; George hesitated a moment before stepping out into the dormitory, regretting his viciousness a little. With a long sigh, he surrendered.

"Good night, Fred."

Fred echoed him, reluctantly. "G'night George."

His brother didn't concede anything further, only sinking into bed with relief that, at long last, this hellish day was over. He buried his face in his pillow, his neck still prickling as though someone was watching him as the other boys quietly moved about, heading to their own beds. He knew exactly who it was. George lay still a long moment, a helpless, frustrated emotion rising in his throat.

_I don't want you to worry about me, Fred. I hate it – I hate knowing you're like this because of me. I hate being just a burden to you. _He took a shaky breath, lifting his head enough to listen to the sudden deadened silence of the dormitory, dark around him. He swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth, uttering out a whisper that he knew no one would hear.

"Fred ... I'm sorry."

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	12. Missing

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 – **Edits. Again, I love the conversation at the start here. :)

* * *

**Chapter 12 - Missing**

_"There's something missing_

_You never feel it but you_

_You're gonna feel it when it's gone_

_When it's gone."_

_-These Hard Times, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

Friday announced itself in the usual fashion as Fred, George, and Lee took a now-familiar detour away from the loud chatter surrounding the Great Hall, all three boys sleepy-eyed and still covering the occasional wide yawn. Few coherent words were exchanged until the trio had reached the welcome warmth and clatter of the kitchens and settled at their designated table in the far corner, beside the roaring fireplace.

Soon the arrival of the cheerful house-elves punctured the dazed silence; they carted out steaming platters of scrambled eggs and bacon and bowed low down to the ground with their eyes shining in delight at the teens' mumbles of thanks. Fred had to cover a slight grin at that; even as daily customers now, the elves' joy in serving them never ceased to amuse him – he mused that the three Gryffindor seventh years had to be some of the only humans the diminutive elves ever saw as they dutifully slaved on in the shadows, merely a marvel to the majority of the Hogwarts population.

Fred shook his head then, grinning; if that particular trail of thought brought him any further, he'd end up joining Hermione Granger with her fervent rants on elf rights. If only she knew. He dug into his scrambled eggs, the warm food at last spurring him to turn to his companions with a thought.

"So, last night Angelina started asking questions 'bout where we keep running off to for meals," he said conversationally. Fred noted George's brow furrowed slightly before he chose to answer.

"I don't want to go back up there. You know that."

"I know," Fred said airily, waving off the note of warning in his tone. "It's just that ... I dunno how long we can keep this going. I mean, you've got a bit of an excuse with our dear Chasers, for now, but the longer we keep skirting people..." He trailed off, the thought prominent in all of their minds. Lee glanced between the twins.

"You know..." he spoke up quietly, since George was stonily prodding at his bacon, "...I think we could do it. When it's just us here I can't even notice anything up with you any more. I don't think someone who's not even watching for it would care in the least."

It was true; the week had seen a world of improvement in George, who could now find his way around the castle unbidden (with Fred following a few steps behind, watching him like a raptor); manage stairs on his own, provided he held to the railing; and memorize, upon a momentary touch, the location of his utensils and everything else on the table. "Yeah," Fred bolstered, "I can hardly tell the difference anymore."

"But you're bloody oblivious," George muttered, instinctively taking shelter as Fred grimaced and flicked a bit of egg at him; it landed instead in his pumpkin juice.

"Am not, you git."

"Are too, Mr You're-Looking-Right-At-The-Mirror."

"...Crap."

"All joking aside," George went on, smirking slightly in Fred's direction, "though it touches my heart to know how much you love me, I am not particularly keen on committing social suicide. Sure, with just the three of us having a jolly old time I can hold my own; but I can focus and I know no one's looking, you know? In the Hall..." He sobered.

"There's too many people, for one thing; you know I get lost in crowds. The noise, for another – and the fact someone might see _something_, even if it doesn't click with them immediately..." He paused and glanced around at his friends as though appealing for their opinion; with a sigh, Fred had to concede his twin was right: he wasn't ready for it, not yet, and hadn't Fred learned that painful lesson already?

"You're right ... I'm sorry I brought it up, 'kay?"

George shook his head. "No, you're right, Fred, I do have to go there ... sometime..." He swallowed hard and managed a half-grin. "What's the use worrying about it now? Let's just enjoy this while it lasts."

"Yeah..." Fred ceded quietly, his eyes still on his twin as he resumed attacking his bacon. Even since last night, George had changed; it was as though, in some twisted way, the bout with the Bludger had restored his old determination, his old confidence. Though there was no denying a rare quiet about him, a hesitancy that hadn't been there before, he was still better than he had been all week, in Fred's opinion, and his heart swelled at that notion. Maybe, finally, things were looking up.

_One week_. Tomorrow would mark the one week of eternity, of instant reversal of everything in their lives. When he closed his eyes, the long quarrels and hours of struggle flashed in his mind; but for the moment, together, they were at peace. Fred knew there was an even steeper climb ahead of them, yet for now he forced that notion to the back of his mind along with the multiple questions plaguing him like particularly annoying gnats: what would happen when their parents finally found out? Or the teachers...

The rebuilding balance they had, the seeking of not their old life – that, Fred knew, was ever a distant memory – but of some form of new normal was so fragile; the slightest crack could send them tumbling back down into chaos. Thusly Fred felt the responsibility fall on his shoulders of defending George from the prying of others; his brother needed him just as Fred needed George to keep him stable in this clandestine venture.

Fred regarded his brother with a heavy burden in his gaze. How much longer could they hold out on their own before others started to catch on? It was inevitable, yet it scared him with all the force of the unknown; would George ever be ready for the world to know the truth about his eyes?

Fred didn't know; and knowing that they teetered on the precipice, unaware of what stretched below them, made his stomach clench in terrible dread.

**·:·**

It took nearly all of his natural charm and improvised wit, but after breakfast George's perseverance finally paid off: grudgingly, Fred agreed to let him venture on his own while the other two boys were to head upstairs to History of Magic.

"Don't get yourself lost now, all right? I don't need to go chasing after you again," Fred said roughly as they emerged from the passage leading down to the kitchens; now they paused at the edge of the Entrance Hall, George searching his cloak pockets for his gloves.

"Yeah, I know, Mum," George countered, barely refraining from rolling his eyes; Fred could be about as overprotective as a mother hen sometimes, and though he did appreciate his attention, really, George needed some space. And so with a bit of a grin to ease his words, he went on, "I'll meet you in the common room after class, all right?"

"All right," Fred and Lee echoed him, and after a moment of hesitation he heard their footsteps tromping across the stone tiles and up the main staircase. George lingered a moment, tugging on his gloves and adjusting his hood; once he was certain that the other two had moved off, he started toward the grand oak doors leading to the Hogwarts grounds.

Soon George was crunching through the thick snow, head slightly bowed against the howl of wind. Despite the breeze tugging his flapping robes sideways, he kept his focus on his straight course toward the blot of darkness up ahead; he could hear the whisper of trees creaking and branches rustling in the wind and knew he was on track.

Ever since last night's Quidditch practice, for some reason he couldn't keep the thought of Teyla the Thestral from his mind. In a way, she had helped him to recover after he nearly drove Fred away; the least he could do would be to pay her another visit. And besides ... as disastrous as the practice had turned out, he could still feel the brush of wind on his face and the wild leap in his heart as he managed to fly again; the technicalities aside, that was more than he would have thought himself capable of, and thus all he needed to believe. Some sense of justice in his mind argued that, if he could learn to fly again – to live again – then so too, just maybe, could she.

Dry branches crackling beneath his feet drove him abruptly from his thoughts, and George stopped short; he was on the border of the forest. He turned his head both ways, straining his ears in the wintry silence.

"Teyla?" he called out uncertainly, suddenly feeling very foolish standing there, shouting out to something that no one, save a slightly insane Ravenclaw, could see. His heart was pounding, but he received no reply from the forest. He tried again, now shivering slightly in the November morning air.

Nothing.

His heart sank. Well, what had he been expecting, really? That she would come galloping out to see him? George grimaced, tugging his cloak tighter about his neck before settling on a drier patch of ground beneath a pine tree – he could feel the prickle of fallen needles beneath him as he perched cross-legged leaning up against the trunk. He rummaged in his pockets a moment, retrieving an apple and a piece of toast that he had swiped from the kitchens on their way out. He had thought Teyla might like them; he was not particularly hungry anymore, but nibbled on the edge of the toast as he waited there.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for any longer – he was pretty sure the Thestral wouldn't be coming. He tried to recall where it was that he had encountered Luna the other day; he had been certain it was somewhere around here, on the edge of the forest, but perhaps he had been mistaken...? He hadn't been paying that much attention on his walk the other day; maybe she fed the beasts further along, down by the lake...

He was just considering walking along closer to where the lake met the forest when a crackling behind him made him freeze; hardly daring to breathe, George instinctively fumbled toward his wand as panic rose in his throat. In his mind flashed every wild rumour of the Forbidden Forest's particularly vicious denizens that he and Fred had ever heard growing up.

Hot breath brushed his cheek as the creature – whatever it was – surveyed him; George held his breath, one hand clenched around his wand, wondering wildly if he could curse it without knowing what it was. Then he stiffened as he heard a rustle, and something tugged at the bread still clutched in his left fist.

"Ah – hey," he began crossly, very carefully – so as not to startle it into attacking – slipping his wand free of his pocket. But then he heard a familiar low nicker and something leathery brushed his fingertips, and all thought of counterattack dissolved from his mind.

"Teyla?" he whispered, then, grinning, stretched out a hand to feel the familiar bony contours of her nose, her head bobbing under his touch. "Hey, girl, you still remember me?"

Teyla snorted softly, her leathery lips still tickling his palm as she foraged for the last bits of toast. George grinned.

"Smart girl. I should have known." Keeping a hand against her head as much for balance as to reassure her, he carefully levered himself up against the tree trunk; Teyla shook her head and snorted slightly at his sudden movement, but did not balk.

"Thestrals..." George murmured, idly stroking her neck as he offered out the apple. "...I can't believe I never knew you existed – before. I bet you don't usually bother with people who can't see you, right? They'd all prefer to think you don't exist, that they're just imagining things. I should know." He grinned slightly at that.

"But you ... you _know_, don't you? That I'm not like them. Maybe I'm just crazy for thinking this, but I just have this feeling that ... that you understand what I'm saying." Teyla snorted, lowering her head to search for apple bits she had dropped in the snow. George tossed aside the sticky remnants in his fist and shifted to stand alongside her shoulder, stroking her neck.

"Well ... last night, I went flying again. I haven't done that – not since _then_, anyway, and I didn't think ... I didn't think I could face it again. Turns out I was wrong ... huh, I guess Fred was right, for once, but don't tell him that, his inflated ego'd burst ... But then ... when I was in the air ... it was such a rush." He paused, but Teyla didn't reply; her bony neck bobbed under his hands as she burrowed in the snow.

"_Ha_ ... maybe I've just lost it. That's what Fred would think, anyway, but I don't really care. I know you won't tell anyone." He laughed, knowing he was rambling now, to an animal at that – _God_, Fred was going to die laughing if he ever found out. George stopped short when he felt Teyla tugging at his sleeve; he took a small step back.

"No, sorry, girl, that's all I've got for you today." He pushed her head away, gently, but she again nosed his side. "Tomorrow I'll bring you more toast, all right? You'll like tha –"

George gasped as her next headbutt sent him staggering sideways and he threw out his arms to catch himself against something warm and leathery; in a jolt he felt her side rise and fall with her breath, and beneath his left hand was her tightly folded wing.

"What – what is it?" he demanded, his voice growing urgent with worry; for the Thestral was dancing about now in agitation and his mind was beginning to race. If only – if only Luna could tell him what she was trying to say...!

Teyla stretched her head back to gently nibble his sleeve; she nudged him with her head and he voiced a wild guess. "You want me to ... to ride you?" In response Teyla tossed her head, the movement shivering down her spine.

"Ah – all right," George swallowed hard. He placed his hands on her back, gauging the height as his stomach clenched in tension. This time, there would be no one around if he happened to fall... But he had to trust her; she had given him a chance, and he had to do the same for her. He shut his eyes and hefted himself upward.

For a moment there was nothing but air beneath him; then his leg was up and over her opposite flank, and he found himself perched in the hollow between her sloping neck and her coiled wing joints. George's breath caught as his new height dizzied him for a moment; he leaned forward and caught his arms around her neck, clinging there for balance.

"Wow..." he breathed, unable to stop a grin slipping across his face. Sitting astride the Thestral was nothing like riding a broomstick; he could feel every knot of muscle and bone beneath him and even the ripple of motion accompanying her every breath; and yet, there was something in it that made a small thrill run down his spine. Teyla stood perfectly docile beneath him, and with the two of them together, the whole world was suddenly open.

And then Teyla lurched forward; George gasped, his stomach jolting with the sudden motion, and he clung tightly to her neck; the thunder of her hoofbeats grew louder as she plunged forward, yet with every second they were accelerating further. George's eyes were streaming; a sudden wild fear had risen in his throat. Where were they headed? Was she taking him deeper into the dark forest? _Thump, thump, thump_: with each cantering step he rose and fell against her back, painfully jarring his tailbone against her spine.

"Whoa -!"

He clung on, heart pounding in rhythm with her thundering hooves; they were going too fast, the wind whistling in George's ears so that it seemed all too well he was flying; but he could still feel the pressure of her folded wings behind his knees and he reckoned, in terror, that if she ever chose to spread them, he was as good as gone.

Swallowing hard, he tried to find the steady rhythm in her rocking strides; her muscles coiled and released beneath his hands, pumping them forward; but he was bouncing around so much on her bony back that it was a chore enough to stay hanging on. Wildly he wondered how Muggles could bear to ride horses in this fashion.

_I'm insane, I must be insane,_ George thought as he tightened his arms around her neck, squeezing his eyes shut. _This is how I'll die, and then Fred'll bloody murder me..._

And then, miraculously, he found it: maybe it was that Teyla had slowed down, or that he had finally adapted to her mad plunge, but at last he was moving in unison with her, forward and back, stretch and release; his knees took the brunt of the work, so even if he was still bouncing up and down, it was on his own terms.

It was nothing like riding a broomstick; yet, the wild rush was the same as flying; without sight he could not distinguish whether they were skimming the ground or soaring over clouds. The whipping wind carried the echo of a roaring crowd...

And then, he sensed it was over; Teyla's hoofbeats slowed, then, gradually, came to a halt; her sides were heaving and a thin sheen of sweat slicked his fingers against her neck. George pulled himself up hesitantly on her back, drawing himself from the dreamlike rush into the present.

As he carefully slipped his right leg over her back and dropped to the slushy ground, the uncertainty of his location made fear rise up in his throat. He kept one hand against her shoulder, knowing that to release that contact meant he'd lose his only guide, too.

"Where ... are we?" he whispered, cowed by the unknown, by the snow-masked silence. He didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one; instead he held out the arm not stuck fast to the Thestral, feeling outward.

He hadn't expected to find anything; but his fingers brushed against a smooth, cold surface, carved with long indents. His heart leaped; now using both hands, he wandered his touch further and George summoned a mental image of the grand oak doors he had long ago left from; he exhaled a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a broad smile breaking across his face.

"Luna was right about you being smart," he remarked, turning back, but he couldn't find Teyla again, nor hear her familiar whinny. He felt a slight pang; had the loyal Thestral run off already? Nevertheless, he called out in the crisp morning air.

"Thank you, Teyla...!"

Grinning to himself, he vehemently promised to bring her double the toast and apples tomorrow for this considerate gesture alone.

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	13. Believe

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Hey! This story has over 100 reviews! That's the most I've ever had for one story; in fact, it's probably more than all my other stories combined... :P Thanks go to all my reviewers out there; your support is what keeps me sure of my writing! You guys are amazing! [Update: Over 350 reviews...! *falls out of her chair*]

**10/04/11 – **Edits. Now we get into the chapters that I gave more of a (major) overhaul. I didn't like the odd anachronisms and I actually stuck to canon dates this time ... yay! Also expect some more clarification on things like how George deals with schoolwork, the teachers' reactions, etc.

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**Chapter 13 - Believe**

_"Well, I'm surprised that you'd believe_

_In anything that comes from me."_

_-Long Day, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

November turned itself over to a bitterly cold December in a fresh cloak of thick snow. More than anything, the inclement weather made the seventh years groan about standing around in the frost for an hour and a half during Care of Magical Creatures, and spend the majority of their evenings huddled around the common room fire.

George didn't think the rest had much to complain about – they at least didn't have an overzealous Quidditch captain who ordered them all out to the pitch twice a week, taking advantage of the last hour of dim light before the darkness swallowed them up. Though George hadn't yet summoned the courage to rejoin the other players zooming about in the air, he had at least ceded to Fred's pleas that he show up to avoid drawing too much suspicion. Thus George spent an hour sitting in the stands, sometimes pretending to watch them, yearning to leave the pitch and visit Teyla down on the forest's edge – but perhaps due to the cold, Fred didn't like him wandering off on his own outside any more. Thus to stop himself from dying of boredom he'd drag along a book which, successfully transfigured, held his attention until his fingers began to freeze from reading by touch.

It was far from a perfect system, and George knew by Fred's edginess when he followed the team into the change room afterward one Thursday that, sooner or later, his brother and the rest of the team expected him up there with them. Which, if he looked at the situation from their point of view, was reasonable enough of them to think, knowing the twins' tendency to bounce back quickly; but that didn't change the fact that the thought alone made him feel ill and he struggled against an urge to point out,_ I can't play Quidditch since I can't even_ see_ a goddamn thing anymore ... Sorry to burst your bubble ..._

Despite this, George tried to keep his outward countenance to Fred neutral, and accepted Katie and Alicia's "Get well soon"s with a sort of wry smile. When the rest of the team had trooped out of the room, the silence was deafening. Fred, who had been purposefully slow in putting on his school robes, stepped forward to take back the bundle of snowy Quidditch robes George was holding.

"We've got to get flying again," he said as he tossed the robes carelessly into their shared locker. George tilted his head slightly, avoiding reply.

"Hang them up properly, or you'll get all my stuff wet," he ordered instead.

Fred muttered, "Yes, Mum." George heard him rustling about and then the slam of the locker closing. "There, does that pass your inspection?"

George nodded faintly, unsmiling, and fell into step with Fred on the way up to the castle. He was shivering in the evening air, shifting his grip on the book under his arm to better hug his arms to his chest.

"Wait – you're reading our Defence book?" Fred said incredulously, apparently sighting the textbook. George grimaced and shifted _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard over to his other arm, out of Fred's reach.

"Yeah, why?"

"Because it's that utter crap Umbridge makes us read in class," Fred said vehemently, making another wild grab for the book.

"Well, I'm not reading it because I like it," George muttered, moving out of his reach again. "Shove _off_, Fred – you're the one who made me rush out tonight - it's your fault, really, I couldn't get anything else."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't my fault Angelina only told me about practice on the way upstairs!"

"I suppose you didn't realize that we have a test tomorrow either?" George shot back.

"Why're you studying? It's not like –" Fred stopped short then, a sort of terror in his sharp intake of breath. Their voices had been growing louder in the night air, now silence echoing back at them. Snow crunched beneath their heels.

"Sorry," Fred mumbled at last.

George shrugged, his head downcast. He couldn't help the burning shame of taking out his own frustrations on his twin, but he wasn't sure he could admit that out loud now. Fred sighed heavily.

"Anyway ... like I was saying, we should start practicing on our own ... The whole team's waiting on you. Angelina even told me – well, she went to Madam Pomfrey." There was a note of apology in his tone. "She asked her herself what was taking your recovery so long ... Madam Pomfrey told her you were fine."

George stiffened. "That ... that was low."

"Well, you know how she gets, she's real serious about the team winning this year ..." Fred mumbled. "If I'd have known – I'm sorry, George, there wasn't anything I could do about it." He drew a breath. "Listen. I – I haven't forgotten what happened last time, but we need to fly again. It's the only way to keep them from finding out."

George didn't answer, and he pressed on, "I'm not asking for you to play like before. Just ... just fly enough so that you can stick with me during practice. That's all I'm asking, George –"

"Stop it," George hissed through clenched teeth. "Just – stop talking like I don't know –"

"I_ know_ you know," Fred cut him off. "You stop jumping down my throat, all right? I know you're not an idiot, just that sometimes you seriously underestimate yourself."

George bit back a furious reply and instead moodily kicked up snow with his dragging feet.

"C'mon, how about tomorrow night, just the two of us," Fred supplied.

"Can't," George countered automatically. "Or did you forget Hermione's tutoring us again?"

"Oh, yeah..." Fred chose not to be baited by the goading note in his tone, and instead suggested, "Right, we have History of Magic last block on Fridays, so what say we put the Snackboxes to the test? No one else'll be about then – yeah, then we can work with 'Mione after dinner."

George nodded grudgingly, reverting to stony silence as they crossed the snowy lawn up to the castle together.

**·:·**

Friday evening, the Gryffindor common room was warm and crowded; a merry fire blazed in the hearth and students flocked around it, chattering amongst one another and celebrating the weekend with combustive games of Exploding Snap or wizards' chess. The occasional sharp BANG of cards exploding split the air, and stepping through the portrait hole behind him George flinched.

Fred squeezed his twin's wrist, finding it as icy as his own skin. They had spent a good two hours practicing flying that afternoon, and even after a warm dinner in the kitchens Fred could still feel his cheeks stinging raw from the wind. He cast about the common room, at last sighting between clusters of students a familiar bushy-haired figure. Hermione already had a table loaded down with parchment, the couch across from her scattered with textbooks.

A slight tug led George in her direction; Hermione glanced up as the twins approached, both slightly out of breath.

"Sorry we're late," Fred said cheerfully, reaching down and picking up a heavy Arithmancy tome from the couch. "Can we sit here?"

"Yes, of course – I was just saving you a spot." Hermione hastened to collect her books. Fred, glancing across the room, saw the logic in her move: nearly all the chairs were occupied already. He nodded thanks, sitting down, George following a moment later.

"So," said Hermione, trying but failing to hide a smile. "How was flying?"

Fred glanced at her sharply; beside him George had gone tense. "How'd you -?"

She grinned. "You pick up on these things when you hang around Harry and Ron. Your hair's windswept, and you both look frozen to the bone." She frowned then, "I really hope you're not making yourselves sick at this rate."

"Thanks for the concern." Fred unconsciously ran a hand through his hair, attempting to flatten it. "Anyway, it went ... as well as could be expected, I guess. George's getting better at following me."

"I couldn't do it on my own," George said flatly. "Too many unknowns ... can't tell where anything is."

"You're surely doing better than me, in any case," Hermione laughed.

Fred smirked, "One of these days, Granger, one of these days we'll get you on a broom..."

"Oh no, I don't think so." Hermione sobered. "But George ... flying is one thing, it's quite another to play Quidditch. And I still think it would be safer if –"

"Hermione," Fred cut her off, "we already had this discussion. He's not resigning." Hermione glanced between them, chewing on her lip, but let the matter go. George said nothing, his gaze carefully downcast; he shifted into sudden motion, rustling in his bag at his feet.

George hefted _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade_ _Seven_ onto the table between them and flicked his wand at it in a lazy, well-practiced motion: instantly the cover rippled and the letters faded, replaced by their Braille counterpart.

"I want to work on self-transfiguration tonight," George said quietly, drawing them back to the present matter. "McGonagall said we'd be tested on the theory on Monday."

"All right." Hermione instantly reverted back to what Fred liked to call her Professor mode; she retrieved her own library-borrowed copy of the seventh year textbook, shuffling aside various homework assignments on the table as she flipped to the appropriate section. Fred hadn't moved, staring at his twin.

"George – er –" He drew a breath and, ignoring the danger of the topic at hand, ploughed on. "- why d'you want to study this stuff if you can't – well, if you can't even write a theory exam?"

Hermione drew a sharp breath; but George did not look up from his textbook, his features hardened. Then very suddenly he slammed it closed; his clenched fists were shaking and for a wild instant Fred thought he might hit him.

"You don't know ... you don't know how lucky you are, Fred. I would give anything just to be able to write a stupid test..." George reached up and scrubbed his palm over his face, irritably. "You know that Defence quiz we had today? I was only able to write my name – and that's 'cause Lee showed me where the little line was."

"I'm sorry," Fred said, and meant it. "I wasn't thinking –"

"When are you ever? You've got as much tact as a raging bull." George smirked faintly at the mental image, and Fred sensed the storm had passed. That didn't stop him from wishing George would've driven some well-deserved sense into him.

George lowered his gaze to the textbook in his lap. "The reason I like to learn this stuff ... is just to prove that I can, you know? I don't like ... I don't like feeling left behind, like I'm not as capable as someone who can do ... this sort of thing."

Fred nodded, grabbing his own battered textbook from his bag and with unexpected zeal searching for the section on self-transfiguration. The twins had always had a silent sort of agreement, Fred reckoned: George was always the one who liked to study, whereas Fred found it hard to sit still with a book when he could be out inventing or playing Quidditch ... Thus George did the research on their products, ensuring mainly that they didn't maim their testers too badly, while Fred expended his creativity and energy in their conception. That was how they worked. So why ... why did it have to be George who suffered like this? Fred figured in his position he would have been happy to skive off studying for the rest of the year.

But ... the truth of the matter was, George was blind; and someone needed to take up the slack for him. Clenching his jaw, Fred made the silent promise to himself that George didn't deserve to lose marks when he was working just as hard – if not more so – than everyone else. There was only one thing to do, and as sworn against his nature as it was, Fred promised to keep those marks high.

"George. Next test you write ... put my name on it."

George glanced over at him in minute surprise, but Fred had stubbornly made up his mind. He forced himself to read through the introductory page on self-transfiguration, even as his eyes began to blur already with boredom. He grimaced and rubbed at his temples when a rustling beside him distracted him; he raised an eyebrow to see Hermione perch next to them on the couch, pulling the textbook from him.

"I'll make notes for you," she said quietly. "How's that?"

Fred stared at her, blinking in utter amazement; then he grinned. "You're a lifesaver. Whatever you want from us, consider it yours."

Hermione's cheeks went faintly pink, but she was still smiling. "Just keep your joke products away from me from now on."

"Your wish is our command."

Embers glowed in the grate by the time they had gotten through the night's workload: Hermione scrawling notes as she went, occasionally stopping to quiz George on the subject matter or answer his questions. Fred watched their exchanges go back and forth, struggling to absorb all of it. When at last Hermione closed her book with a sigh, Fred leaned back in his seat, stretching like a cat. His head was spinning and he supposed wryly that this would be the first time in a while that he actually cared to study.

George stood up, shouldering his bag with a grunt. "Thanks a lot, Hermione. You're brilliant, you know that?"

Hermione went pink again. "Thank you. But I'm impressed at how quickly you've caught on, George ... you're doing really well."

"We'll see what my teachers think," he said dryly, before turning toward his twin. "Fred, you coming?"

"In a minute."

George nodded and started toward the boys' staircase on his own. Fred watched him a moment as he weaved a careful way around abandoned clustered chairs, but George seemed capable of handling himself. He turned back to the mess of crumpled parchment they had left on the tabletop and helped Hermione collect her work.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly, stowing what was hers in her bag; as Fred made to chuck some of the balled parchment in a wastebasket she grabbed his arm. "No – leave that here."

Fred raised an eyebrow as she fished in her bag and withdrew two garishly patterned wool hats. She placed them on the table and rearranged the crumpled papers on top. Finished, she stepped back with her hands on her hips, ensuring that the hats were now invisible.

"For the house-elves," she explained, catching his strange look.

"Ah." Fred decided it best not to argue with her on elf rights, and picked up his book bag. "Well – thanks for this. Suppose we'll see you again Monday night then?"

Hermione nodded. "A – are you really going to switch your names on tests?"

Fred shrugged, "Done it before for homework and stuff. It's not like they can tell the difference." She was still looking at him a bit anxiously, and he barked a laugh. "'Mione, you're not worried about me failing, are you?"

"You can't –"

"Don't worry about our marks. I'm not," said Fred. "'Sides, we've always scraped by with decent marks before. They don't like to admit it, but deep down the teachers love us."

"But this is different – NEWT year –"

"We already have our OWLs. That should be enough, shouldn't it? Why they test us again I have no idea." Fred started across the room, Hermione trailing him. By her long sigh, she surrendered that fight to him.

"Fred..." They had reached the base of their respective staircases now; Hermione was not looking at him. "You realize ... this past Monday marks one month from the match."

"That long already?" Fred blinked and glanced toward the dark window, snow spiralling down pressing up against the glass. "Funny ... sometimes it feels like forever."

"He's managed so much since then. I remember..." Hermione drew a breath. "...I remember that day he went missing."

She was right. It hadn't been easy, but a month had made the twins adapt to the rocky climb ahead of them. Looking back, he could only marvel at how far they had come so quickly ... and yet it was all too easy to lose faith at the steep expanse ahead.

"He's changed, hadn't he," Fred said quietly. "This time for the better."

"You have, too," Hermione acknowledged. Fred glanced sharply at her, bemused, but she only smiled. "Just look at you now. Asking my help to study."

"...Oi. Not fair."

Hermione smiled, turning away for her staircase. "Goodnight."

"Yeah ... goodnight."

_To be continued..._

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Author's Note: Wow, anyone else getting a vibe of my preferred shipping here? XD Don't worry - there's still no explicit shipping intended in this story, but it seems I have been a devout FredxHermione shipper for too long. :D

Please review!


	14. Terrified

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11** - Looks like this is still the longest chapter so far. :D

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**Chapter 14 - Terrified**

_"And I'm so terrified of no one else but me_

_I'm here all the time_

_I won't go away_

_It's me; yeah, I can't get myself to go away."_

_-Long Day, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

It was two days before Christmas break when Professor McGonagall called the twins aside after class in Transfiguration. She had spent the last half of class going over their last chapter test, scored as would have been a NEWT exam. George had been discreetly trying to study for tomorrow's History exam (why was it that all their teachers had to squeeze in tests before the winter break, anyway?) beneath his desk when she called them out, and his stomach flip-flopped. He felt along his desk for the sheaf of parchment she had earlier handed back. He had put into practice Fred's earlier request, and written his twin's name on his blank exam ... now he wondered, fearfully, if she had picked up on their hoax.

After sufficiently rebuking the class, warning them into studying for their next exam, else their marks start to really suffer, Professor McGonagall outlined all that they needed to know about self-transfiguration. George was pleased to find he already knew most of it by heart, but this was more a private victory than anything else. At last they were saved by the ringing bell; all around George, students got to their feet, whispering to one another; everyone seemed relieved to head off to the evening feast. George hastily stowed his textbook in his bag before anyone got a chance to see it; he picked up his test, offering a nod to Lee's muttered "good luck".

Once his friend's footsteps moved off, George heard Fred approach; together they neared Professor McGonagall's desk.

"You wanted to see us, Professor?" George wished he could match his twin's breezy jubilance.

"Yes," Professor McGonagall said curtly, and George could image the thin line of her mouth. "Now, I am well aware of the ... particular significance you accord your schoolwork, but I must say I am concerned. You are no doubt bright, talented young men and it worries me that as of late your efforts have been most feeble."

There was a rustle of parchment.

"Ah," said Fred, "about that. See, I was kind of otherwise busy and didn't get a chance to study."

That was _his_ test, it had to be, George realized. He felt color rising into his face and focused on worrying with the zipper of his bag.

"This is no fluke here, Mr Weasley. As your head of house, I have heard similar concerns from your other professors as of late. Both of your class attendance has been below acceptable. I understand that recent changes in staff have made this a difficult year for all of us, but that is no excuse. Messrs Weasley ... whatever preoccupies you, understand that I am here to listen, if you need it."

She was prodding them gently for answers, but George recognized with a jolt that she was also genuinely worried about them; he shifted uncomfortably, hoping that Fred had a story handy.

"Well, to tell the truth, our focus hasn't been on school as of late," Fred said lightly. "We're working on our career prospects at the moment and all. But if you've been looking at our attendance record, then you can also see we've been getting better," he objected. "Haven't missed class since two weeks ago, have we, George?"

George nodded wordlessly.

"So, you see, nothing to worry about," Fred concluded cheerily.

"Not so fast, Mr Weasley. By 'career prospects' you mean this joke shop you told me about two years ago, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well ... I must see fit to advise you that while you are still here at Hogwarts, your career must be established on your own time, and not during classes. No – I don't care what your excuse is, Mr Weasley, that is final. And second, I am afraid attending classes will not be enough. I am in fact a little mystified at the divergence between your marks – your brother has managed to maintain a steady Exceeds Expectations since early December."

George blinked, shooting a bewildered look at Fred. _So that's what he did when we switched tests?_ He knew Fred hated studying – he would skive it off if he thought he could at least bluff his way to a pass. So why...

_Why go so far for me?_

But Professor McGonagall wasn't finished. "I would like to see you follow your brother's example in the next term. See to it that he studies. I know very well that you are capable of answering the questions, Mr Weasley." Parchment shuffled on her desk. "That is all I have to say – here, have a biscuit."

George was beginning to feel a little ill – what she expected of them was impossible, and she was so close to skirting their close-held secret ... Nevertheless he followed the sound of the rattling tin and took a biscuit.

"Professor," Fred said suddenly. "There might be – erm – something holding me back on tests."

George choked on his biscuit; Fred calmly reached over and thumped him on the back as Professor McGonagall considered.

"Do explain, Mr Weasley."

"Well ... you see..." George stared at his twin, wishing he could see his expression – he couldn't deduce it from his vague tone. _Goddamn it,_ what was Fred thinking? With his eyes George tried to tell him to shut up.

"It's not that I don't know the material," Fred said at last, thoughtfully. George was now discreetly as possible stepping on his twin's foot. _Shut up, shut up, you idiot._ Fred went on louder, "I mean, I don't always study, but I know it from class ... but when I get to the test I just can't write it down, you know?"

Fred concluded considerately, "I think I might be dyslexic or something."

In his momentary shock, George trod on Fred's foot a lot harder than he intended, and heard his twin draw a sharp, pained breath.

"Dyslexic, Mr Weasley?"

"Yeah ..." Fred said, his voice faint with pain, then gaining his course again, "See, I was talking to Hermione Granger the other night and that's what she suggested it was ... I was trying to get some study help from her, as it were. In fact, she said I might do better if I could maybe do an oral test."

"...Interesting," said Professor McGonagall, her tone carefully veiled. "And do you believe this will help you, Mr Weasley?"

"I'll only know if I can try it," Fred said.

"Very well ... I'll keep this in mind, and try this method with your chapter exam after the holidays."

"Thank you, Professor, that'd be great."

"I am giving you a chance, Mr Weasley. I want you to put a strong effort in this time ... and I suggest you continue to study with Miss Granger, as it may do you some good."

"Thanks. I will." Fred turned and George followed him along the deserted rows of desks and out into the hall. When the door had closed behind him, Fred dropped his countenance.

"What the hell was that for, George?" he hissed, limping as he moved to walk closer to the wall. "I swear, if you broke my toes –"

"Sorry," George said, offering his arm. "I thought ..."

"What? That I'd tell her? How stupid d'you think I am?" Fred huffed. When George didn't answer immediately he hastened, "Don't answer that, please."

George snorted. "You're oblivious, but you're one hell of a liar. That was kind of brilliant back there."

"See, I do have my good qualities." Fred limped along a moment. "Think you can do a spoken test?"

"Yeah ... that's kind of how Hermione quizzes me, anyway."

"Good. That's what I thought, too. Fred could use the boost to his marks, don't you think?"

George smirked faintly, but this comment reminded him of something from earlier. "Fred ... you've been getting Exceeds Expectations..."

"No, I haven't," Fred said automatically. "You have."

"Stop it, you know what I mean."

"...Yeah. So?"

"So I've never seen you read a textbook in my life."

"You've also never seen me study with the Gryffindor resident genius."

"Sure, but ..." George tapered off, sensing this was a losing battle. With a sigh he returned his gaze to his feet. "...Thanks."

"No problem, brother o' mine."

**·:·**

Despite the best efforts of Professor Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad hounds constantly prowling the dark hallways, the disappearance of a good dozen Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students that evening went completely under their radar. Along the seventh floor corridor, a fourth year Gryffindor, Colin Creevey, hovered in his station as guard. Farther along the hall, a group of whispering Ravenclaws entered an out-of-place door, which faded into the wall as soon as they had closed the door behind them.

"Hey, Colin," Fred said lightly as he and George approached. The small Gryffindor bobbed his head; though he was nearly bouncing on his toes in his excitement, his eyes were darting up and down the deserted hall with utmost sobriety. Fred supposed he was taking Harry's orders seriously.

He gave a slight surreptitious tug on George's sleeve, and his twin followed his footsteps along the hall, past a darkened tapestry of trolls chasing down some poor wizard and the blank expanse of wall where the door had been. The Weasley twins ventured back and forth in front of the empty wall, Fred silently guiding George all the while; on their third turnabout the wall began to rumble; then the arched doorway surged outward, as solid as if it had been there all along.

Fred stepped forward and yanked the door open, George on his heels as he stepped inside the Room of Requirement. The clandestine headquarters of Dumbledore's Army was already clustered with students chatting to one another; but Fred raised an eyebrow to see the chamber lit up with festive decorations: strings of golden tinsel stretched across the ceiling, entwined with holly and mistletoe; and if his eyes weren't fooling him those baubles hanging from the ceiling had rounded pictures of Harry's smiling face. At the center of the room, Harry himself broke away from where he had been conferring with Ron and Hermione to approach the twins.

"Hey, Fred, hey, George," he said. Parvati and Lavender, fifth year Gryffindors, came through the doorway behind them and offered a chorus of greetings; Harry nodded to them, a little hesitantly lifting a hand in a wave. As the girls moved off, giggling over the decorations, Harry turned back to the twins with a sheepish sort of grin. Fred could tell he still wasn't exactly comfortable in his role as their leader, even if they all vehemently agreed he had more experience with the dark arts than the rest of them combined.

"Nice decorations," Fred approved with a smirk. "_Have a Harry Christmas_ ... maybe it'll catch on." Harry grimaced slightly, embarrassed, and rubbed a hand through his messy hair.

"Dobby the house elf put them up."

"Ah," said Fred knowledgeably. "My sympathies." Beside him George glanced about the room, shifting anxiously from foot to foot; he knew without asking that the growing crowd was making him nervous. Fred unthinkingly reached over and held to his sleeve, feeling George ease slightly at that small reassurance.

Harry cleared his throat, glancing away. "The reason I wanted to talk to you is, well..." He trailed off, looking over at George.

Fred caught on and offered a flash of his confident grin. "Don't worry, we can manage now." It was the first DA meeting that the twins had seen fit to attend in two months; by now, Fred was confident in George's experience to be able to handle himself.

"I was thinking we'd try Patronuses tonight," Harry went on hesitantly. "If you need help or anything, well, come see me." He shrugged, not meeting their eye again. Fred understood with a jolt: though he wanted to help in whatever way he could, Harry didn't have the same months of experience to know how to act around George. He had been in a similar situation, himself.

Fred smiled and mimed a salute. "Yes, sir, will do, sir."

Harry looked as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh or be exasperated about their leader treatment. A moment later, giving them a nod, he then wandered off to talk with a group of Hufflepuffs.

George shook his head wryly, his lips twitching at a smile. "He's hopeless."

"I was at first, too," grinned Fred. "Though I would like to say I had more tact."

"You? Tact? Good luck with that," George snorted.

"Oi, shut up, you," Fred muttered, with half a mind to ditch him and head across the room to where Lee was joking with Angelina, Alicia, and Katie. Well, he liked to consider himself a nice brother, so he stayed at George's side, as ungrateful as the prat was.

A sharp whistle split the air and a hush fell over the Room of Requirement. The students all turned to watch Harry pacing in the center of the floor.

"Right, I think we're all here now," he said. "Welcome back, all of you. Since this'll be our last meeting before the holidays, and because you're all progressing so well – and I really mean that – I thought I might as well introduce what we'll be doing next. This is really advanced magic, so don't get discouraged ... tonight we're just testing it out. Has anyone heard of the Patronus Charm?"

A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. Everyone remembered the Dementors that had swarmed the school two years ago; rumours of the Patronus Harry had used to drive them off had travelled the corridors for long afterward. As good of a defence as it was, the Patronus Charm was truly an advanced spell; even full-grown wizards struggled to master it, and as such it wasn't even taught in school.

As such, George, who struggled now with the most mundane Charms in class, lowered his head slightly. This gesture of discomfiture did not go unmissed by Fred, who tightened his grip on his brother's arm. _You'll do brilliantly_, Fred thought. _You don't seem to realize how much you've accomplished in about two months ... I know I couldn't do as much._

Harry turned back to the excited crowd. "Hermione, care to explain?"

The bushy-haired witch stepped forward, reciting as though she was in class, "A Patronus is like a shield or guardian. Its form depends on the caster – it can be said to represent one's inner personality and emotion, if you will. That is, when it's produced properly; otherwise it'll simply be misty. Patronuses draw on the caster's good memories and feelings to repel Dementors – which feed off of despair."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Harry grinned at her. "Exactly." Hermione beamed, her cheeks warming, and Harry turned back to the DA. "Now, I have to warn you before we start, this is extremely, extremely advanced magic, and believe me, it took me months to master the full-body Patronus. Frankly I'll be impressed if any of you can produce anything today. But –" here he looked at them all, "- that's not the point, remember that. The more you all practice, the stronger we'll become, so just keep trying, all right?"

The group nodded solemnly.

Harry took a breath, drawing his wand. "For the actual spell ... _'Expecto Patronum'_ ... The words alone aren't enough; you have to focus on a happy thought, a happy memory to repel the Dementors. The Patronus'll remain as long as you hold your focus, so don't let go – like this. _Expecto Patronum_!" At the conclusion of his speech he gave a purposeful forward swish of his wand and there was a great rush of air; something silvery and ghostly swooped from the tip of his wand, alighting the room with sudden warmth.

Hooves clattered against the floor as a proud, tall stag took shape, cantering about the crowded room; students turned to watch it weave past them, breathless in the Patronus's calming splendour, but no one spoke to shatter the serene void. Fred somehow detached his gaze from the awe-inspiring sight to look sideways at his twin; George's eyes were closed and even if he couldn't see the Patronus, his slight smile suggested he could just as well sense it as silvery light danced across his face.

The great stag looped around them once before slowing and returning placidly to its master's side; it bowed a head adorned with sweeping antlers and extended its muzzle to brush Harry's extended fingertips. At the contact, the ghostly beast evaporated. As though plunged into icy water, the familiar castle chill settled into the air and Fred shivered despite himself; he welcomed the rush of applause that shattered the longing stillness.

Harry was smiling slightly in a sort of half-embarrassed fashion as they all cheered at his effort. "Right then," he had to repeat himself loudly to be heard, and the applause at last tapered, "you can all give it a try now, just spread out a bit."

The shift was instantaneous; a wave of excited murmurs swept the crowd of students as they moved off, pulling out their wands and beginning to experiment sweeping it about, as Harry had. Someone jostled George's shoulder as he moved past and he flinched; Fred, drawn back to the present, again made a grab for his sleeve.

"C'mon."

He started toward where Lee and the seventh year girls were practicing and laughing; after a few strides he changed his mind and shifted toward a more secluded corner. If George noticed their altered course, he said nothing; but his silence was gratefulness enough.

**·:·**

The murmur of the crowd died down slightly as students began to get to work – or so George imagined they must be, waving their wands about and repeating the spell. His skin still tingled with the memory of the rush as Harry's Patronus wove its way around the room and he wondered, almost hopefully, if someone would accomplish the spell tonight. He drew himself back to the present, however, as Fred released his arm and cleared his throat.

"Shall we?"

George forced a smile to match his chipper tone. "We shall." He fumbled in his pocket for his wand and drew it, holding it steadily on air.

"Wand movement's pretty simple," Fred instructed quietly, taking hold of George's right wrist and flicking it in a forward motion. "Like this."

"Got it," George echoed, his throat suddenly dry. "Well, you go first."

"All right." Fred paused a moment, presumably collecting his own wand, before declaring confidently, "_Expecto Patronum_!" His hopeful tone faded toward the end, and George rolled his eyes.

"Well, why don't you try it?" Fred had evidently caught his look and prodded him good-naturedly. George still hesitated.

"You're sure you're thinking of a happy memory and all, like he said?"

"Yeah, 'course I am," Fred muttered. "Go on. Your turn. I won't laugh, promise."

"Watch it, I might stab you by accident," George said mock-crossly, jabbing out with his wand again. He heard Fred take a step back.

"Now, George, that's just mean," Fred complained. "What did I, your caring brother, ever do to you to deserve such treatment?"

"I'll get back to you on that," George said dryly, raising his wand. _Here goes,_ he reckoned. _A happy thought ..._

But he paused, the spell on his tongue, his mind having gone completely blank. It wasn't like he had much cause for happiness lately, was it? He had lost nearly everything...

_No, not everything,_ George argued with himself. He still had Fred. Fred who believed in him; Fred, amazingly the same after all that had happened.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" George called on the empty air, flicking his wand forward as Fred had shown him; he waited an instant, his breath bated, hearing only the echoing mutter of several students repeating the same phrase.

"All right, my turn," Fred said brightly, getting into it now. "_Expecto Patronum! Expecto_ –"

George found himself tuning out his exuberant attempt, his own thoughts wandering as he ran a hand aimlessly over the wand clenched in his fist, somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the rough wood, the notches and scratches from years of mischief and mishaps. He had thought of Fred, hadn't he? He couldn't imagine anything else to center himself on; Fred was a much a part of him as his own person, he was the strong side of him. The one who had fought on when he was too afraid to continue. Fred was everything to him; he would have long given up hope without him. So why hadn't that vehement thought been enough?

"Okay, George, try it again!"

_I want to see Fred again. _The thought floated up, unexpectedly, unbidden in his mind, and in his surprise he hadn't the force to push it back; but as the reality sank in his throat began to tighten. _Oh, God ..._ It had been a month, more than a month, without seeing his twin's face, without seeing his own face to remind him. And suddenly terror reared up in his mind. What if ... what if he couldn't remember what Fred looked like? Desperately he searched his mind, closing in on the memories, holding fast to them.

Fred: he was laughing, his blue eyes clear and shining, not clouded as they had to be now, his mop of red hair framing his expression. George couldn't remember what he had said to make Fred laugh like that; but they were together, plotting something, some prank ... Already he couldn't remember; the details were fading, and a wild, terrible fear rose in his chest.

If he lost Fred, he lost everything –

"Earth to George, you all right in there?" Fred's cheery voice cut through his thoughts and George shook his head, fervently trying to dislodge the fear that had settled in his chest.

"I – I can't –" he began. In the background he could hear Harry talking to someone, instructing their technique; his voice was getting closer. George drew a shaky breath. "You do it again."

"Well, all right," Fred said, sounding slightly uncertain now; surely he had noticed something was wrong, but he wouldn't pry, not if George didn't want him to. George strained his senses, listening as Fred took a pace away across the stone floor, raising his wand once more.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" There was a breath's pause, and then Fred grinningly exclaimed, "I saw something that time!"

George's heart skipped a beat. "Wh-what?"

"Great!" a voice echoed; it was Harry, at his shoulder. "You've got to keep focused, all right? You're doing great, both of you! Now George, your turn."

George felt both of their eyes on him; his heart was pounding, he could still feel cold fear in his chest as well as something else – some odd stirring of feeling – he drew a long breath, struggling to force it back, the pain, the surrounding whispers, the doubt, everything. He closed his eyes and raised his wand, his arm trembling.

_Fred._ Fred was with him; Fred was always with him. Vehemently he forced himself to believe it, repeating the words with all his strength: "_Expecto Patronum_!"

The silence was deafening. George waited a breathless instant, not sure what he was waiting for; a rush of feeling as had accompanied Harry's Patronus? Some sort of signal?

He lowered his wand, despite the crowd feeling the prominent chill of the room. "That was a good try," Harry encouraged. "Keep trying, you're doing great!"

George nodded, his fist clammy clenched around his wand. Distantly he heard Fred curiously asking Harry what memory he chose to use.

"Well..." Harry considered a moment. "I think about friendship. And tonight, I thought about all of us ... the DA ... how strong we've become together, how close we've become."

"That's a good one," Fred approved.

"Thanks. What're you two using?"

"Ah – when we won the Quidditch Cup," Fred said lightly. "What about you, George?"

"Er," George said hastily, "I thought about – er – us, pulling a prank." He kept his eyes downcast and was very glad to hear Harry moving off again. He breathed a little easier, but still could not look in Fred's direction.

Thus it continued for the rest of the evening; half-heartedly, George joined his twin in repeating the spell, though neither of them accomplished anything further. The corridors were black outside by the time the DA filed out of the Room of Requirement, tired but feeling accomplished in the only way that marauding beneath the unwitting eyes of Umbridge could inspire.

But as they headed upstairs to the dark and silent seventh year dormitory, George still felt himself haunted by an unknown sensation of fear. He lay there in the dark, listening to the faint rustling and muttering of the other boys turning in for the night.

He rolled over on his side, curling his knees to his chest, his eyes wide and sightless on the all-encompassing night. Now alone with his darker thoughts, he couldn't help but feel the same prickling of feeling deep in his chest, and he didn't like it very much.

Why ... why could Fred produce a Patronus and he couldn't? He had tried as bloody hard as he could ... George shut his eyes, trying to block out that thought. Fred had just as much of a right to be happy, didn't he? It wasn't fair ... It wasn't fair to hold him back all the time...

Silently George's shoulders began to shake, but he said nothing, did not move as he lay in the darkness, eyes closed, the tears soundlessly tracking down his face.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Dun dun dun ... well, that's new. :D Please review!


	15. Leave

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

* * *

**Chapter 15 - Leave**

_"But some things in this world,_

_Man, they don't make sense._

_Some things you don't leave until they leave you_

_And then they're things that you miss."_

_-Bright Lights, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

"Mr Weasley. Mr Weasley!"

George's eyes snapped open on the all too familiar darkness; someone was shaking him with a firm hand on his shoulder. He blinked, his sleep-befuddled mind striving to catch up as he rubbed a fist over his eyes. Where he was curled on his side, the blankets were still warm and wonderfully inviting; there was no way it could be morning yet, it seemed mere minutes ago he and Fred had stumbled back into the dormitory after the DA meeting...

"...Stop it, Fred..." he mumbled vaguely, once more burying his face in his pillow.

The hand remained steady on his shoulder. "Come quickly, Mr Weasley, the headmaster wants to see you both."

_That voice. _George's memory sparked; that was Professor McGonagall's voice! Why was she in the seventh year dorm this late at night? What was going on here?

He sat up, struggling to untangle himself from his bed sheets as he did; Professor McGonagall's presence faded and a few moments later he heard her uttering similar hushed orders to Fred. George slid to the edge of the bed and dropped his feet to the ground, drawing a sharp breath as ice seeped into his bare feet.

A terrible feeling of foreboding settled suddenly in his mind. _No. _Professor McGonagall couldn't have discovered his secret ... he and Fred had been so careful to disguise his blindness ... _Even so,_ argued the logical part of his mind, _why would she see fit to send them to the headmaster now, in the middle of the night?_

He was shivering now in the wintry air, in his light pyjamas. Fear made his heartbeat quicken; what was going on?

"S'matter?" muttered Fred's voice next to him, his brother barely covering a yawn. "What's –"

"In a moment. Come with me," Professor McGonagall informed them in a sharp whisper. Was it just George's imagination, or did her voice waver a little as she addressed them? He looked around desperately for Fred, hoping for answers, for support, and a hand closed on his wrist.

He trailed in Fred's shadow from the silent dormitory, his mind now fully awake and abuzz; they made their way down the winding staircase in the whispering shadow of McGonagall's long cloak; when Fred stopped short George knew them to be standing now in the darkened common room – silence lay as thick as a shroud.

"What's going on?" Fred asked abruptly; apparently he was just as awake as George now. His hand clenched a little bit tighter on his arm and George wondered if he was having similar thoughts. _If she knows..._

"Not now," Professor McGonagall said urgently. "The headmaster will explain everything. Wait here while I fetch your sister." The whisper of her cloak sweeping away, her shoes echoing against the stairs of the neighbouring stairwell, soon faded into the night.

In the deadened silence, George and Fred looked at one another; George heard his twin draw a shaky, uncertain breath.

"We didn't do anything," he said, his voice more a plea than a statement. George nodded, cold sweat beading on his brow.

"Fred, d'you think she...?"

"I don't know," Fred cut him off, and the uncertainty in his tone made George's insides twist sickly. If Fred was afraid ... God, where did that leave_ him_?

"She doesn't have proof," Fred pressed on, as though sensing his fear. "She can't. We've been careful –"

He stopped short; George tilted his head at the sound of footsteps tramping down the stairs. That had to be Ginny with Professor McGonagall. Was she going to tell her, too? Was she going to tell their whole family? At the back of his mind he wondered why she hadn't stopped to get Ron, too; but before he could voice his confusion to Fred, Professor McGonagall ushered them toward the portrait hole.

"Quickly, now. The headmaster will answer your questions – please, stay quiet."

The portrait hole creaked open and the Weasleys trooped in a subdued line behind their Head of House. George started to hang back, relying on Fred to make sure he wouldn't trip in the dark, when he felt something brush up against his side; he froze before remembering that Ginny was with them. A small cold hand clasped his own.

"George, what's going on?" Ginny whispered.

George didn't answer; his throat had gone dry and he suddenly, vehemently wished she would let go of his hand. For walking in stride with Ginny meant that Fred had gone on ahead, and he needed his guidance more than ever right now. Sure, he had a fairly good mental map to rely on – thanks to years studying the Marauders' Map, no doubt – but in his current flustered state he was grasping at threads of memory ... were they getting close to the moving staircases now? He strained his senses. Clumsily he tried to adjust to Ginny's strides, but it wasn't the same; she was relying on him for support now, and how the hell was he supposed to do that when he had no idea where his own feet were carrying him?

"Hey, Gin," Fred's hushed voice drifted over them, "walk in front of us, all right?"

"Why?"

"Because." Fred didn't elaborate, but a faint rustle gave away him reaching for his wand. For some reason at the unspoken suggestion the back of George's neck began to tingle, as though someone was watching them. He shook off the feeling with difficulty as Ginny released his hand, her hesitant footfalls hurrying, then falling back into rhythm a little ways ahead.

Fred exhaled a long breath and fell into step with his brother, this time actually taking hold of his right hand. George gave a start at how warm Fred's hand was. He said nothing, but the gesture alone was enough; George eased slightly, allowing himself to fall into the same steady rhythm of their strides, surrendering guidance to Fred. As they turned down the corridor, the contours of his map came back to him; up ahead, he knew, was a snarling gargoyle hunched sentinel in front of the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Ginny's looking at us," Fred breathed at last. Normally George might have worried about arousing suspicions; but tonight, perhaps on the verge of discovery, he could care less; he squeezed Fred's hand slightly even as his heart was pounding. He didn't know what to expect, but whatever happened he was not prepared to lose him again.

"Fizzing Whizzbee," Professor McGonagall said shortly. They had come to a stop in front of the gargoyle, George assumed; there was a low rumble trembling through the floor beneath his bare feet (belatedly, he remembered he had forgotten to grab his shoes) and a scraping of the hidden door opening.

_Stairs_, he remembered just in time, as Professor McGonagall and Ginny stepped forward. He followed suit in Fred's shadow, and in the narrow space his twin was forced to release his grip. The steps rose up beneath him and George drew a long breath, somehow collecting his will.

Whatever was going on ... he would face it with Fred by his side.

George had only perhaps been to Dumbledore's office twice in his career as a Hogwarts prankster; he only vaguely recalled a circular chamber in grand shades of mahogany, an array of mysterious instruments glinting golden along low tabletops; bookshelves lining the walls; a desk set at the center of the room; and a sleek red and gold phoenix perched in the corner.

The Weasleys trooped into the room behind Professor McGonagall, all in the same breathless sort of worry. Fred was beside George again, their wrists bumping together. George could only assume the headmaster of Hogwarts himself was seated behind his desk, his half-moon glasses winking at them in the glow of candlelight that flickered faintly at the edges of his vision.

"What's –" Fred began automatically.

"Ah. Sit down, all of you. I am afraid there are some explanations in order."

Fred tugged on George's sleeve, leading him discreetly toward a chair; George sank down in a surprisingly comfortable seat, his fists automatically clenching around the ornate wood arms.

"Albus, there is not much time," Professor McGonagall warned tensely. _Not much time? _George echoed silently. Why not ... why all the secrecy in the middle of the night? It all seemed a bit extreme just to unveil that he was blind...

"I will be frank, then. Your father," Professor Dumbledore intoned solemnly, "has been gravely injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix."

George's mouth opened; he had nothing to say, however, and quickly closed it again. _Their father..._ A terrible cold fear lodged in his chest. _Oh, God..._ This was beyond what any of them could have expected; he almost would have preferred to hear the accusation.

"He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Grimmauld Place, which is far more convenient for the hospital than the Burrow. You will meet your mother there."

That ... that made it sound almost like...

"Well, is he going to be all right?" Ginny piped up in a quiet, shaken voice. At the same time, Fred demanded, "Why is Harry here?" (George looked around in surprise; if he had been perhaps not as preoccupied, he would have berated himself for not noticing the extra two presences in the office).

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore hesitated, "saw the snake that attacked your father."

"Snake? What snake?" Fred was bristling in the chair beside him, as much from wild fear as from being left out of the loop. George unconsciously reached over, quelling him with a slight tug on his sleeve. There was no answer to his question; instead Dumbledore spoke curtly.

"There is Fawkes's warning. Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds ... Minerva, go head her off – tell her any story –"

"Of course." Professor McGonagall swept toward the door, and a moment later they heard it click quietly shut behind her. George was looking around anxiously, wondering what was going on, still clutching to the edge of Fred's sleeve.

"Come here, all of you," Dumbledore instructed, rustling about on his desk; something clanged loudly as he deposited it between them. Fred tugged George back to his feet as Dumbledore went on, "You have all used a portkey before, I assume?"

There was no answer, and so George assumed the others had nodded – all too shocked to speak. He swallowed hard, hearing only a scuffle as everyone crowded around the desk to touch the portkey. A wild panic rose in his throat as he was jostled from his position; there was someone pressing in on either side of him.

"One ... two ..." Dumbledore counted off, amazingly retaining his same cool composure in the midst of heated panic. Fred's hand closed on George's wrist and dragged him none too gently into their midst, his hand blindly finding a cold, slightly curved rough metallic surface; a kettle, he guessed.

"Three."

A familiar jolt near his navel alerted him a moment before George felt himself launched forward, shoulders knocking against Fred on his right and whoever was on his left; he could feel a rush of air on his face as they hurtled forward, hands still clutched frozen to the kettle in front of them; the motion was nauseatingly disorienting and he closed his eyes, trying to find some sense to it –

_Clang_; the kettle bounced hard off the ground and rolled away from their grip; George's feet hit the stone floor and his knees buckled; some weight connected with his side and he overbalanced, all the air knocked from his lungs. In the next instant he found himself with his left cheek pressed against cold stone, something warm and struggling on top of him, and someone else's elbow jammed up into his chest.

George groaned faintly, a distant throb of pain reawakening at the base of his skull. He lay there with his eyes closed even as he felt the heap of Weasleys struggling and shifting on top of him. Somewhere above a gleeful cackle sounded: "Back again, the blood-traitor brats?"

"OUT!"

A door slammed, echoing across the chamber. A chill set into his limbs from the wintry air – the fact that he was crushed against the icy floor didn't really help in that matter – and footsteps rang out near his temple.

"Hello, everyone," said Sirius Black in a considerably kinder tone. "It's good to see you all again, even if the situation ... isn't the best." He grunted faintly and some of the weight lifted off of George's back. The Weasleys clambered to their feet, panting, the hitch in their breathing plainly from fear. A hand closed firmly on George's elbow and hefted him upward; he staggered to his feet, wincing, and tried to yank his arm away.

"'m fine –" he hissed, but the grip on his arm remained firm; he struggled and landed an elbow to his captor's side.

"It's me, you git," Fred muttered, at last releasing his arm. George quieted, a bit ashamed of his outburst, and stood uncertainly next to his twin, both breathing a little quicker than normal.

"All right, can someone please explain what the hell's going on?" Fred demanded crossly.

"Yeah, what's going on, Harry?" Ginny added quietly.

"Your father's been injured while on duty with the Order," Sirius answered them, his tone grim. "They're taking him to St. Mungo's now – I don't know much more than that, I'm afraid. Your mother should be along sometime soon – she'll be able to update us on his condition."

The room fell silent at that revelation, save for the rasp of their quickened breathing and the faint bubbling of a cauldron over a crackling fire; George tilted his head toward the sound, deducing that they had to be in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He could picture the long wooden table laid out in the room, copper pots and utensils hung across the low ceiling.

"Why ... why can't we see him now?" Ginny asked in a small voice.

"Dumbledore's orders are for you to stay here," said Sirius.

"He's our father!" Fred burst out. "We should be there with him! We should -!"

"You can't," Sirius cut him off sharply. "Imagine how it would look, if his children knew moments after the accident, before the hospital even informs your mother!"

"So what!" Fred's voice grew louder with frustration. "He's our _father_, damnit! We need to –"

"Look," Sirius growled, his voice low and dangerous, "this isn't my choice, it's the Order's. Even if you and I hate it, we have to listen to them."

"When has the Order ever let us do anything!" Fred yelled.

George grabbed his arm, knowing very well Fred was nearing his boiling point. And as much as any of them hated it ... "He's right," he mumbled. "We have to wait." Grudgingly, he felt the tense muscles under his fingers ease, and Fred sighed heavily.

The uncomfortable silence returned for a moment; footsteps paced back and forth in front of them.

"Right then," Sirius said in a forced tone. "No use standing around here ... why don't we have some Butterbeer?"

He received no objection, and thus Sirius shouted at the house in general: "KREACHER! BUTTERBEER!" The elf did not respond; muttering darkly under his breath, Sirius left the room to fetch the Butterbeer himself.

In his absence, the Weasleys plus Harry mechanically moved toward chairs at the long table; the scraping of chairs split the silence for a few welcome instants, and George, following after his twin, sank into a chair on his far side. He sensed the others looking at one another bleakly, no one daring to speak. George kept his gaze downcast, trailing his fingertips along the table, tracing a particularly rough burn in the wood.

"God..." Fred whispered at last beside him. George concurred with his line of thought; that was basically all that was running through any of their minds at the moment. To think that, only a few hours ago, his greatest concern had been whether or not he would fail at creating a Patronus...

George prodded his twin. "'Time is it?"

Fred paused to check his watch. "Just after midnight..." This news was met by silence from the table; George nodded, still focused on poking at a knot in the wood.

A welcome distraction came in the form of Sirius's return to the room, announcing in an attempt at being jovial: "Butterbeer!" A collection of bottles thumped down on the center of the table, clinking as he passed them around. Fred mumbled faint thanks; George only nodded as he heard a bottle land in front of him, as well, but he made no move to touch it.

Time trickled on slowly, hour after hour, someone occasionally rupturing the dead silence to ask for the time. They slumped around the kitchen table in a bleak stupor, George fingering the curve of the unopened bottle neck damp with condensation, listening to the faint thump of the others drinking from their Butterbeer. George's thoughts were beyond.

_God ..._ After all that had happened, he couldn't help but blame himself for neglecting the thought of his family for the past two months... And now ... What now? What if he – what if their father was really – when he struggled now to remember his face, or his voice –

George drew a shuddering breath and lifted one hand to brush his fingers through his thick hair, his hand lingering at the back of his neck. The bandages were long gone, but he could still feel the rough chafe of a scar, half hidden in his unruly hair, running nearly vertically along his neck.

It was a little while after 3 AM – Fred's voice making the bleak announcement – when a sound at the front door shattered the icy silence. George straightened in his seat, suddenly alert, hearing the click of numerous locks and the grumbling shift of it opening. Hurried footsteps pattered down the hall and then froze in the doorway.

"Oh, there you all are," said a voice in strained warmth – a familiarity that made his heart ache. Mrs Weasley moved forward into the room with a long sigh. "We think he's going to be all right. Bill's with him now."

The thick atmosphere seemed to lighten as they all exhaled in relief; suddenly it didn't seem so cold to be sitting there barefoot in his pyjamas. Beside him Fred sank back in his chair, running his hands over his face; someone, Ginny, he guessed, got to her feet and pattered toward their mother, ensconcing her in a hug.

He's going to be all right. _He's going to be all right._ As that realization filled him with a rush of release George suddenly smiled, his face strained, and reached forward a trembling arm, popping the cap off his Butterbeer; he took a long gulp of the liquid, the warmth tingling down his parched throat.

"He's going to be all right," Mrs Weasley said again in a breathy voice, just as relieved; she neared the twins now, leaning down to catch them both in a hug. Her arms were trembling around Fred and George; George winced slightly as she nearly banged their heads together, but neither of the twins had the energy to protest.

Sirius suddenly leaped to his feet. "Breakfast! How about it? Let's see now ... there's seven of us?"

Mrs Weasley straightened, an arm still around each of the twins. "Oh, no, Sirius, we wouldn't want to intrude –"

"It's all right," he waved her off, "you can all stay over the holidays if you like, I don't mind." In fact, there seemed an undercurrent of relief in his tone; too long, it seemed, he had been left alone with only Kreacher for company.

"That would be wonderful of you." Mrs Weasley's voice held a warmth she had probably never offered to him before; the two had never been on the best of terms when the Weasleys had stayed the summer at Grimmauld Place. She released the twins and bustled off to help prepare breakfast.

Next to him, Fred stood up and stretched with a yawn; George considered following him, then decided he'd rather remain seated, so as not to become any more disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. He pulled his Butterbeer toward him, smiling slightly; the delicious scent of frying eggs and sausages filled the kitchen with warmth. Mrs Weasley called over to them.

"I could use a little help here, you know. Fred, George, could you set the table?"

Fred groaned; George looked around for him anxiously, doubting he could remember where everything was in the kitchen even if he could see; as it was, he didn't dare walk around the house without Fred by his side.

Harry jumped in, "Why don't I do it? ...Yeah, give you all a break..." He scuttled off for the cutlery drawer. George exchanged a sightless glance with Fred, one eyebrow raised.

"Well ... I can forgive his hopelessness yet," he mumbled wryly, earning an amused snort from his brother.

In a few short minutes, Harry – aided in the end by Ron – had clinked down the silverware and plates in front of them, and Mrs Weasley laid out a plateful of sizzling scrambled eggs and sausages. George's stomach growled; it seemed forever since he had last eaten.

The Weasleys, Harry, and Sirius dug into the meal, more cheerful now, doing anything normal to keep their minds off the long night's events. Through the clatter of plates and the first hesitant strands of idle conversation, George poked Fred in the side.

"What?" Fred hissed, as he repeated the gesture. George gave him a pointed sort of look; it must have gotten across, for a few moments later he pressed the platter of scrambled eggs into his hands.

"Thanks," George said quietly, serving himself; he handed it back and heard for a moment the scrape of Fred collecting his own eggs. George felt along the table for where Harry had placed his fork and prodded experimentally at his breakfast. Wryly he reckoned this would be the first time in two long months that he would eat in the company of someone other than Fred and Lee in the kitchens. It was damning unnerving to hear the bustle of noise at the edge of his awareness, not knowing if anyone was watching him or if he was doing something stupid.

He breathed out a long sigh, forcing himself to stop being so paranoid. They didn't have any reason to suspect him, so his unusual jumpiness was doing him no good. In any case, he had Fred, and he had confidence that his twin could help him if he really needed it.

Breakfast passed mercifully without incident, and Fred, subtly tugging on George's arm, led him from the room before their mother could con them into any cleanup duties. The hall outside was musty and dark; George slowed instinctively, disoriented by the unknown. At Hogwarts he had years of experience and his mental Marauder's Map to guide him, so he had enough confidence to walk on his own; here, under watchful eye and with full knowledge of all the dangerous items lying around, he was terrified.

Fred led him on tiptoe toward the main staircase; George felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as though someone was watching him. He could hear the faint snoring of the portraits dozing along the darkened walls, and, cringing, remembered the large portrait curtained by moth-eaten drapes at the end of the hall...

"Wonder if all our stuff's here yet," Fred whispered, the first step creaking under his weight. George glanced up, about to reply when his foot caught on something large and heavy. With a muffled cry he flailed out his arms to catch himself – the large and heavy thing knocked against his hand and toppled with a loud bang at the same instant he hit the floor on hands and knees.

George swore aloud – but the sound was lost in a sudden, ear-splitting screech.

_Damnit, Mrs Black's portrait -!_ Belatedly George clapped his palms over his ears, eyes tightly screwed up against the warbling sound; but it was in vain as his ears were already ringing, and somehow through the din he could hear footsteps thundering out of the kitchen, voices shouting over the cacophony.

Then, silence.

A hand under his arm urged him to his feet, and George nearly stumbled into Fred's side. "You all right?" his brother whispered, but George, his face burning, shook him off.

"Sorry," George croaked, stooping and fumbling for whatever he had fallen over: his hands hit a surface thick like tanned leather, but rougher and peeling, and he hefted the bulky object back into place with a grunt.

"S'all right," said Sirius's voice next to him, helping him readjust the stand. "It's that damn troll's leg – should've gotten rid of it long ago, everyone trips on it."

_No,_ George corrected silently, _only me and Tonks_. Aloud, however, he said nothing, his grimace and reddened ears speaking enough for him. He kept his gaze carefully downcast as the others filtered back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up the dishes. Fred tugged subtly on his sleeve, drawing him back to the matter at hand.

"Upstairs?" he suggested. "C'mon, I would almost be glad for one of Mum's jumpers right now. Aren't you cold too?"

George didn't answer, starting after his twin up the stairs, glad for the steady grip on his wrist. Behind them a voice spoke up.

"Why're you two sneaking off? You can't expect Ron and me to do everything around here," Ginny objected. George was certain she was giving them her signature glare – inherited from their mother, no doubt – with her hands on hips, standing at the base of the stairs. Fred froze an instant.

"That's none of your business," George snapped. Turning back around, he gave Fred a half-shove with his arm, enough to get him moving upstairs again. He was in no humour to deal with anyone else at the moment, their sister or otherwise. If Fred thought it an odd change in his mood, he said nothing, but led him soundlessly upward.

**·:·**

The twins retreated to the mercifully silent third landing, whereupon opening the door they were met with the room in a similar state as they had left it in. Fred coughed on the expelled cloud of dust as he stumbled into the chamber, ensuring George entered behind him before closing the door once more. When he turned back on the room it was to see his twin mulishly approach the bed nearest the door and flop down on his stomach, throwing the pillow over his head.

"There might be Doxys in there, you know," Fred said conversationally, eyeing what was visible of his brother's tuft of red hair from beneath the pillow. No answer. Fred sighed and turned away, picking a careful way across the chamber. Aside from the dust drawn up when he ran a finger across the top of the dresser, the room was in noticeably better condition than when they first had arrived over the summer. Trust Mrs Weasley's cleaning regime for that. Fred smirked slightly, weakly, and moved to the cracked windowsill, pulling back the faded curtains.

Outside, dawn light tipped the horizon, accentuating the deep snow ensconcing the square below with sparkles. The fronts of the Muggle apartments across the way were dark and silent, the light just beginning to stretch toward their shadows. It was still ridiculously early in the morning, but none of the Weasleys could even entertain the thought of sleep at the moment.

A rustling behind him made him look up; George had emerged tousle-haired from beneath the pillow, very focused at picking at a fray in its edge. "Look, Fred – I didn't mean, earlier –"

"It's all right," Fred cut him off, dropping the curtain and padding across the room toward him. The edge of the bed compressed slightly under his weight as he perched beside his brother. "We're all on edge right now. You're holding up well, considering ... Don't worry about it."

George poked the pillow. "...'m scared," he mumbled. "It's not just 'cause I could slip up and let them find out," he went on hastily, "but ... for Dad, for all of us ..."

"Yeah," Fred said gruffly, "I am, too."

George hesitated, and though spurred by his brother's revelation of feeling, went on in a rush, "Fred, sometimes I forget what –"

But Fred cut him off with a sudden hiss, from habit more than anything else pressing a finger to his lips; his eyes were narrowed at the door, where he caught the flicker of a thin, fleshy string beneath its base worming its way into the room.

George stared at him, mystified, his head tilted slightly to the side as Fred rose off the edge of the bed and strode to the door. He paused a few feet away from it, stared once more at the wiggling Extendable Ear, and then swore under his breath. Without a second thought he swung a vicious kick at the base of the door.

"Ginny! Those are _our_ inventions you're using against us!"

There was silence at the other end; then the fleshy string drew back under the door. He caught the shadow of movement of their sister on the landing. "What is _with_ you two," Ginny muttered in disgust, "you're acting so weird lately. You used to be _nice_, you know."

Her footsteps tramped away down the stairs; Fred waited a long moment, listening to ensure that the two of them were once more alone, before venturing back to where George was sitting in bewilderment.

"So, you were saying?" Fred said conversationally.

George shook his head, eyes downcast once more. "Forget it."

"You gonna get off my bed, then?"

George picked up the pillow once more and drew his knees up, hugging it to his chest, once again worrying with a bit of thread protruding from the edge. "This is stupid, Fred..." he mumbled at last.

"Well, yeah, you're in my bed."

George ignored him. "Why can't ... why can't we tell them?"

Fred's breath caught. Instead of answering, he stood up once more and paced back to the window, leaning his head against the frosty glass. "George ... I ..." _You're not ready,_ he reflected, staring at his listless reflection in the glass. _It's not that I don't trust you, George, but ... I don't want you to get hurt... You're always so scared, so defensive even without the world knowing the truth..._

Idly Fred traced a finger across the foggy window, writing their names. _Gred and Forge_. He grinned slightly to himself, without real reason for it. "I ... I mean, the two of us ... isn't that enough? We don't need anyone else."

"...I don't want to pretend anymore," George said into the pillow. "You can't lie to me. I know they're gonna figure it out, eventually. At least ... at least I want to be the one to tell them."

_Oh, God._ Fred closed his eyes, rubbing a fist across the window and wiping out their nicknames. "George, it's been a long night ... Neither of us has slept properly in something like twenty four hours and we're far from thinking straight. Just ... just don't worry about it right now." _We have enough to worry about as it is._

Hating how evasive he sounded, Fred moved back across the room to sit beside his brother; George didn't react even as the bed shifted beneath him, his head buried in Fred's pillow; Fred sighed and drew one arm about his brother. George's shoulders were trembling.

"Hey."

A bit alarmed by his reaction, Fred put his other arm around George, drawing him up against his chest. "Hey," he repeated, leaning his chin against the top of his head. "S'all right, Forge, we'll let them know when you're ready. I – I know you're scared. I am too, all right? But we have each other and I'm not gonna let anyone take that away. We'll be all right, you know. We'll_ all _be all right, Dad and you and ev'ryone else..."

George made no sound, but pressed his face against Fred's chest, his breath coming in quickening rasps; Fred only held his twin tighter against him, whispering reassurances that he himself strived to believe.

Outside a step creaked and a young redhead with her face unusually solemn inched her way downstairs.

_To be continued..._

* * *

What's Ginny up to, now, hmm? :D Please review!


	16. Change

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

* * *

**Chapter 16 - Change**

_"Well, some things in this world you just can't change_

_Some things you can't see until it gets too late."_

_-Bright Lights, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

The twins eventually came to their senses in time to hear Ron knock at their bedroom door. "Our Hogwarts stuff's here," his voice came muffled through the doorjamb. "It's all downstairs ... Mum says to come get it..."

"Be there in a minute," said Fred, hopping off the bed and taking a step toward the door. He paused then and glanced back at George, who had not moved, still clutching to the pillow as though it was a Muggle life preserver.

"George...?"

"Yeah, let's get our stuff," George conceded forcefully, throwing the pillow unceremoniously at the head of the bed and standing up. He maintained his gaze carefully directed at his feet, and Fred knew he hadn't fully recovered his confidence from earlier. Well ... he knew just the thing to cheer him up. With a brazen grin, Fred whipped his wand from his pocket.

"Shall we make this quick, then?"

George glanced sideways at him as though he could read his mind, chewing on his lower lip. "I – I dunno –"

"C'mon, you can hold onto me," Fred pressed. George hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, withdrawing his own wand. Tentatively he reached out and clasped Fred's hand; together the twins raised their wands, and with identical focus Disapparated.

CRACK.

The first thing Fred registered was the noise – Mrs Black was screaming, the warbling screech echoing up and down the narrow passageway; he released George's arm to press both hands over his ears, wincing. Ron struggled past them both, Harry on his heels, both lugging heavy, snow-encrusted trunks behind them. Ron accidentally jostled George as he squeezed past and his face blanched a moment in horror as his brother stumbled – "Sorry -!"

"S'all right," George mumbled, shrugging off the hand Ron touched to his shoulder. Still eyeing him warily, Ron and Harry started upstairs.

"There we are!" Mrs Weasley bellowed over the screeching. "Trunks are right here, now – _for goodness's sake_, Sirius, will you get that portrait to be quiet!"

Fred pressed himself to the wall as Sirius ran past, muttering darkly under his breath; George was looking around, utterly bewildered, as Mrs Weasley approached the twins.

"I have no idea what you put in these things –" she grunted as she pointed her wand at their battered trunks, levitating them a few inches off the floor and directing them toward their owners. "– ridiculously heavy, one of these days they'll have weight regulations on them, I swear – oh,_ now what_!"

Her exasperated exclamation was lost in a blast of noise; as the trunks knocked against each other in midair one split open, spilling a collection of vibrant firecrackers that promptly detonated. Wild sparks flew in all directions, erupting into brilliant colors as they rebounded off the floor, the walls, the ceiling –

Fred winced, "Forgot about those." But before their mother could reprimand them, he lunged forward, thrust the handle of the non-ruptured trunk into George's grasp, and quickly collected a handful of what was left of the sealed fireworks. He flung them unthinkingly into the trunk, looped the hand still clutching his wand through the handle, at the same time reaching out for George's hand.

"FREDERIC WEASLEY, I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU –" But whatever Mrs Weasley was about to say was abruptly cut off as, with another sharp CRACK, the twins Disapparated.

A split second later, the two materialized in their upstairs bedroom; Fred released both the trunk and George, falling back on the edge of the bed, panting as though he'd just run a marathon. George stumbled on the strewn trunks and landed on his knees on the ground, cursing faintly, the sound still nearly lost in the echo of noise vibrating up through the floorboards.

"George, you all right?" Fred asked, now forcing himself to rise up and crouch next to his brother. George stayed on the floor, both hands over his head, his pale expression screwed up as though he was trying very hard not to be sick.

"I'm sorry," Fred said quickly, "that was my first time Side-Along Apparating, I should've warned you – I didn't splinch you, did I?"

"Fred. Please shut up." George lowered one hand and dragged the other slowly through his hair. He drew a shaky breath and then dropped his hand wearily. "It's ... it's not your fault ... I don't think I can Apparate anymore..."

Fred's heart wrenched. Somehow, however, he surfaced with a forced smile. "Good to know, then, for next time. D'you need anything? Preferably not outside this room, since Mum likely wants to murder me now ... Forgot I put the Whizz-Bangs in my trunk – they're still a bit volatile, it seems..."

George snorted. Taking that to be a good sign, Fred rocked back on his heels and stood up, regarding their school trunks; he walked over to his and kicked it open, quickly finding the blue-and-yellow jumper Mrs Weasley had knit for him last Christmas. He pulled it on over his pyjamas before foraging for George's own, tossing it to him.

"Here. You'll feel a bit better when you warm up."

George did not argue, but complacently pulled on the knit jumper as well. It was several long minutes until he felt steady enough to clamber up off the floor, retreating to – for once – his own bed by the window. The room fell into silence disrupted only by the muffled screeching from below, George tilting his head in the direction of the bleak sunlight angling through the half-open window as he lay in bed. Fred, solemnly quiet for now, settled on his own bed, content to watch his brother from afar.

To watch and wait.

**·:·**

After lunch, Hermione made her appearance at Grimmauld Place with her own school things in tow; term had ended that morning at Hogwarts, and she was no sooner through the door that she started near-hysterical enquiries as to what had happened to cause their disappearance last night. Even with the knowledge that Mr Weasley was alive and in stable condition and that that very afternoon they would soon render him a visit, it was still a difficult story to relay. Harry and Ron were explaining the night's events in an undertone when Mrs Weasley bustled into the kitchen, announcing it time enough for them to head to St. Mungo's.

"Now, then, we'll be going the Muggle way – make sure you're dressed appropriately!" she chided as she began to hustle the group toward the door. Out of habit more than anything else George glanced downward, trying to remember what he was wearing; he tugged at the edge of his knit jumper, his fingers chafing the stiff material of jeans underneath. An attire "Muggle" enough for their incognito journey to London, he deemed. Now, if it was color-coordinated was another matter entirely ... smirking slightly, George couldn't help but wonder at the supposed wisdom of letting Fred manage his wardrobe.

A hush fell over the group – the Weasleys plus Harry and Hermione stood in the dark hall as several locks clicked and shifted under Mrs Weasley's expert guidance. Then the door hinges creaked open, a gust of cold air brushing his face; George was glad of his jumper and the slight guiding tug on his sleeve – Fred was just in front of him now, he deemed, as they crossed the threshold and down onto the snowy lane.

George took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling it chill all the way to his lungs. Feeling – any sort of feeling – he welcomed it, tilting his head upward to feel the faint sunlight caressing his skin, the wind pulling at his hair and clothes. They were crunching through ankle-deep snow now, George careful to follow the sound in front of him and the occasional brush of his brother's arm against his.

Nevertheless, the farther they walked on in the snow, the greater the tingling of nervousness arose in his stomach. The day was pleasant and he could fool himself for a welcome moment that it was another day at Hogwarts with Fred, another early morning walk to absorb the array of tactile sensations; or another visit to Teyla, his Thestral confidant. But the imagining was for naught; they were headed to St. Mungo's, which happened to be the last place he wanted to walk into blind, especially when he was so prone to slipping up. George hated the hospital on a regular basis; when he had something so desperate to hide from their prying, watchful eyes, he was petrified.

He just fervently hoped Fred was in a more alert state at the moment, as he would be needing his guidance very soon.

Up ahead, the footsteps stopped short; the Weasleys waited in the frosty afternoon air, George rubbing his hands along his arms for warmth as much as for something to distract him. Fred sidled up beside him, their shoulders touching.

"Everyone, stand back," warned Mrs Weasley.

BANG!

Inadvertently George flinched; in his mind he could picture the gigantic, violently purple bus that had just surged into being on the street in front of them. Doors slid open with a faint squeak; a bored voice overhead announced, "Welcome aboard the Knight Bus."

"In you go, then." Mrs Weasley was hustling them aboard; panic fluttered in his throat as George felt someone pressing in on either side of him, the others making their way onto the bus; where was Fred? Then a hand closed on his wrist and pulled him forward. Fred went ahead of him, and gave a faint upward tug on his arm; George understood the signal almost a moment too late, catching his foot on the first step and stumbling. He threw out a hand and caught the handrail; clutching to it as though his life depended on it, George felt his way upward into the warm and faintly stale bus.

Fred weaved a path around strewn chairs to the very back of the bus; they had hardly sat down when the Knight Bus hurtled forward once more, careening wildly down Muggle streets. George closed his eyes and gripped the edges of his chair tightly as they went through a sharp curve; the turbulent motions of the bus made bile rise in his throat, and at once he was almost wishing they could just Apparate there instead – as sickening as that had been, at least it was quick –

Brakes shrieked and the bus jerked to a sudden halt; George's chair skidded several feet forward and it was all he could do not to pitch forward; all around him he heard the clatter of chairs falling and somewhere Ron's voice cursed. George took a shaky breath, swallowing hard as he passed a hand over his face. Next to him on his left he heard a small squeak, and someone pushing their chair back into place.

"Fred?"

"No, it's me, Hermione," said the voice quietly. Hermione's voice quavered and he figured she was no better off. "I'd really hate to see where wizards get their operating licenses!"

He cracked a smile at her effort to lighten the mood, feeling a jerk beneath him as the bus accelerated forward again. He steeled himself. "Sorry to break it to you, but I don't think they have one."

"Well, that would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Someone say my name?" There was Fred on his right now, dragging his chair over to join them – apparently George had traveled quite a distance forward when the bus had stopped. "Hey – you're really pale, you know."

"Please don't talk to me," George groaned faintly. "I think 'm gonna be sick..."

"Me too," Hermione concurred. "Oh..." For the bus had just entered another wrenching turn, and George shut his eyes again. _Make it stop, make it stop..._

Then George stiffened, feeling an arm around his shoulders; Fred tightened his half-embrace. "'Mione, come over here." A moment's shuffle and he felt Hermione on his other side, holding tight to his left arm, pressing her face against his shoulder. He could feel the shuddering rasp of her breathing; George in turn leaned his head against Fred's shoulder, drawing comfort from their shared presence despite the occasional jarring bump of the road.

When he heard the screech of the brakes he instinctively tensed; the three of them, holding to one another, managed to stay in their seats as all around them chairs skidded and collided. "St. Mungo's!" shouted a voice near the head of the bus.

"Yeah, after that, we'll need it," Fred muttered darkly. Hermione stifled a giggle into George's shoulder.

They stood up as one. George's legs felt like jelly and he welcomed the support on either side as he made his cautious way down the aisle. The stairs still terrified him, but with Fred in front of him and Hermione tagging right behind he managed them without hesitation. Now once more out in the cold, snow trickling down into their hair, the Weasleys clustered together again.

"Let's go, quickly now," Mrs Weasley said, her voice faint with illness as they all tottered toward the entrance.

George could only imagine what they must have looked like as they staggered into St. Mungo's waiting room: all seven of them green about the gills, dark circles beneath their eyes, Muggle outerwear and hair mussed. Nevertheless, George felt a mixture of adrenaline and fear pumping through his veins and knew none of them would give in to their exhaustion before they had ensured their father's safety.

"I'll go check us in," Mrs Weasley reported up ahead. "Go find somewhere to sit – I'll be there in a minute."

The teens started off; Fred once more had a steady grip on George's hand, guiding him down a row of chairs. George, intimidated by the silent atmosphere and a faint chemical-induced cleanliness in the air, followed meekly, his head downcast. He heard a few patients cough as they sidled past, and something he thought to be the _ribbit_ing of a frog. He couldn't ask Fred for clarification, however, as his brother then stopped short in his tracks.

"Wha –" George began in a whisper.

"Illness or injury?" a clipped voice demanded. George froze, his breath catching in his chest; he felt Fred's hand on his tense slightly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Illness or injury?" the medi-witch's voice repeated coolly. George wondered wildly where the others had gone – he had lost track of the sound of their footsteps –

"Neither," Fred said with an edge to his voice. "We're just here to visit our Dad, that's all."

George breathed again to hear the clip-clip of high heels marching off; feeling suddenly drained after the near-encounter, he cast a bleak stare at his brother.

"Thanks."

Fred did not answer, but led him to the cluster of chairs where Ron was already in a whisper detailing St. Mungo's clientele of various unfortunate spells gone wrong. Even after they sat down, Fred did not release his grip on his twin, and George noted Fred had not relaxed any. George winced faintly at the lessening feeling in his fingers, but said nothing. He, too, was terrified.

"What are you doing?" Ginny's voice said abruptly.

"What, we're not doing anything," hastened Fred, dropping George's hand as though it had burned him. George tilted his head slightly, in the nothingness having no clue as to her expression; mercifully a moment later Hermione distracted her with a query about St. Mungo's history.

"We're allowed in to see him now," Mrs Weasley announced upon her breathless return, leading the group down the hall. The hushed murmurings of the waiting room fell away to silence split only by their harried breathing and suddenly loud footsteps. Mrs Weasley muttered under her breath. "Second door on the right ... here we are."

They stopped short; then with trepidation, one by one made their way inside. A tug on his sleeve led George forward, though Fred had apparently a mind to be more discreet this time, and did not prolong the contact. George would have regretted that loss, however, an exclamation ahead of him drove all thought of such trivialities from his mind.

"Dad!"

Was that Ron? George's footsteps slowed as foreboding seeped into his veins. All the same he heard Fred's footsteps hastening ahead of him and then obediently doubled his pace to keep up, crossing the length of the chamber. Fred stopped in his tracks; George nearly collided with his back and, catching himself, clung tightly to his brother's arm.

"Hello!" called Mr Weasley, the very sound of his cheerful voice making George's knees faint with relief. "What a surprise to see you all – Hogwarts is out for holidays, then? Excellent."

"How are you feeling, dear? You're still looking a bit peaky." Mrs Weasley fussed over him. George, sensing a moment of distraction as the others all clustered about, offering news and condolences, tugged urgently at Fred's sleeve.

"How – how is he?"

"He'll be all right now." There was a smile in the voice, but it wasn't Fred who had spoken; his brother's arm beneath his hands was still stiff as Fred struggled for words. George started, his eyes widening, for he remembered that voice –

"What – how did you -?"

"I just flew in a few minutes ago," grinned Charlie Weasley; the voice of his favourite elder brother was unmistakeable, even disembodied, and a sudden wild rush of relief overtook him. All too well it seemed he recalled the long days past when Charlie had been their babysitter; the one who first taught them to ride a broom and tie their shoes; the first one to laugh at their pranks, even if it had been _his_ toys they sacrificed; and the one whose bed they cowered in during thunderstorms. A lump rose in his throat, and George reckoned he could use an older brother like Charlie right now.

As George, trembling, searched for words, Fred joined in the conversation.

"Wow, Char, all the way from Romania for us? I'm touched."

"It wasn't just for you." Charlie's voice was dry with a note of sobriety; then he added lightly, "It's a bit earlier vacation than I had planned, but oh well ... I'd prefer to be here with you lot now, anyway."

"You gonna be staying with us, then?" Fred asked in sudden curiosity, and George knew he was referencing Order headquarters and not the Burrow; of course, Charlie had to be a member too, he was long of age.

"Yeah ... I suppose it's about time I did my share around here..." Charlie's voice was distant. George drew a deep breath; ignoring the others still clustered around their father's bedside he plunged forward, throwing himself into his older brother's arms. For an instant the broad muscles of Charlie's chest tensed in surprise; then he wrapped his arms around George, returning the hug.

"Well, it's good to see you, too," Charlie said with a laugh, recovering from his stupor. George tried to say something, it coming out muffled anyway in Charlie's jacket. Charlie didn't have long to consider his brother's unusual need for contact, for the next moment George felt another presence press up against his side as Fred joined the huddled hug.

George didn't care if they looked ridiculous, standing there clinging to one another; they were all together now, for better or worse.

_To be continued..._

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Aww, group hug! Please review!


	17. Home

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: For those who are wondering why Mrs. Weasley hasn't noticed anything different about her son yet, she's too busy worrying about Arthur to be aware of much else, as is most everyone else.

**10/04/11 -** Edits. This one's different ... let's see how many pairings are (falsely? maybe?) implied in this chapter, hmm? (And just for the record - no matter what Ginny may think, I do not support incest.)

* * *

**Chapter 17 - Home**

_"You should turn yourself around and come on home."_

_-Bright Lights, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

The added presences at Grimmauld Place were beginning to make George feel on edge. By the time Christmas dawned, he had already spent a good deal of his time barricaded in his and Fred's room; to keep suspicions at bay Fred would occasionally maraud downstairs, his jumper sometimes sporting an F and sometimes a G; in the hectic bustle of preparations, no one spared enough of a second glance to realize he was only ever Fred.

Meanwhile, George had a mind to continue his studies – he of course had to keep up with Hermione in his readings – and for hours curled in bed with his transfigured textbooks, reading them by touch. When he grew bored with his seventh year books, he had gone so far as to ask Hermione for further reading, which, after a simple translation spell, broadened the range of his reading capacity greatly. Hours passed in such silent fashion, an enticing scent of cooking turkey beginning to waft up from downstairs.

George glanced up at the sound of the door opening; he smiled faintly at Fred's muttered greeting as footsteps padded across the room, and the mattress compressed slightly next to him.

"You're in my bed again, you know," Fred muttered, though the commentary wasn't quite cross. George smiled innocently and resumed trailing his fingertips along the page.

Fred leaned over his shoulder, his breath warm on his face. "Whatcha reading?"

"_Hogwarts: A History_."

"No, seriously."

"Yes, seriously," George countered lightly. "A friend recommended it."

Fred snorted faintly before withdrawing. He stretched grandly before flopping back against the headboard with George, barely covering a yawn. "While you're cozy up here, Mum's working the rest of us like house elves, you know. If I see any more dust, I swear I'm gonna scream."

George cracked a smile at that mental image and prodded Fred good-naturedly in the side. "Ah, but you wouldn't want your poor brother risking his life to tidy this place up, would you?"

"If you keep rubbing it in..." Fred pretended to growl and poked him back, right above his hipbone, where he knew very well George was ticklish. He barely stifled a laugh, squirming away from him.

"Stop it -!" George retaliated, poking Fred again. He got him, hard; Fred rolled away from him with a grunt.

"Uh-uh, you started it!" Finding his opening, Fred lunged again; his fingers found George's sides and this time he couldn't stop the laugh bubbling in his chest. Gasping, George tried futilely to evade his reach, curling over on his side and clamping his hands over his vulnerable sides.

"Ah – stop it – Gred, you're _mean_!"

"Sadistic is more like it," Fred cackled, continuing to tickle his brother mercilessly. "This is for making me do all the hard work around here!"

"Not nice – to gang up on – someone defenceless –" George managed between gasping peals of laughter. With Fred leaning over him, he only had one option; reaching up, he poked two fingers ruthlessly into Fred's armpit. Cheating, maybe – but it was worth it as Fred tumbled away from him, now the one laughing uncontrollably. He missed the edge of the bed and dragged half the blankets with him as he impacted gracelessly on the floor with a resounding thump.

"Cheap shot," Fred muttered from the floor, salvaging his damaged dignity. Grinning most evilly, George sat up and hooked his fingers over the edge of the bed, peering down at him.

"I still won. Looks like you'll have to do my share of slave labour, too."

"...Damn you, Forge."

"And fix my blankets while you're at it, would you," George requested innocently, smirking at him.

**·:·**

"Hey, Gin," greeted Charlie from where he was busy in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a collection of vegetables at hand ready to dump into the sink. Ginny padded over to where he was working, carting under her arm a box of colourful baubles.

"Have you seen the twins?" he asked her. "Mum wants them to help me out here – thinks I can keep an eye on them, I guess."

Ginny shrugged, "I haven't seen them since this morning. They're probably upstairs, as usual."

"Ah," said Charlie, flicking water off his hands. "Suppose you could get them for me, then? You can always curse them for slacking off, I give you permission."

Ginny smirked a bit at the thought, heading toward the kitchen door – she then hesitated, checking that they were alone. "Charlie ..." she began suddenly, turning back to him. "You ... you know them pretty well, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Charlie, frowning slightly at her. He wondered what she could be implying; troubled, Ginny poked at an emerald bauble.

"I dunno, lately they've been ... a bit weird. I just thought ... maybe you could get a straight answer out of them about it."

"Weird how, exactly?" Charlie cocked an eyebrow, despite his amused smirk slightly concerned. Before he had left for Romania, he had seen fit to instruct the twins to care for their little sister – in the sort of way only they could, not cajoling her as the youngest, but acting as the sort of older brothers she could rely on and laugh with. Sure, it had been a bit of a ploy to see if she could cause them as much hell as the twins had given him, as much as he loved them for it; but a real friendship had bloomed from it. And if Ginny was worried about her brothers ...

Ginny took a long breath. "Well ... I don't know when it started, but they've become distant – from all of us, at school, even here. They won't even talk to me anymore. This one time ... I overheard them together, and they were scared about anyone finding out something ..."

Charlie reflected on that. "I'll talk to them, I guess. Don't you worry too much, Ginny – they're mischievous, true, but they're smart too, and they wouldn't do anything illegal or anything like that." _At least, I'll kill them if they are,_ Charlie added silently. Ginny nodded, apparently reassured by his vehemence.

"I – there's one more thing," Ginny said in a rush. "I keep seeing them holding hands together and it – I don't like it much."

Charlie had been sending vegetables flying into the sink with his wand, and winced as half a dozen carrots clattered to the floor. "...I'll talk to them, Gin," he repeated at last. "Don't worry." He watched from the corner of his eye as she retreated in the direction of the stairs, and he hesitated.

"Gin?"

"Yeah?"

"...Don't tell Mum or anyone else about this, all right?"

Ginny nodded before disappearing from view. Charlie rubbed a wet hand through his hair before bending down to retrieve the carrots. _Damn it ..._ This was one talk with the twins that he really, really was not looking forward to.

He sighed, casting an eye about the room. Now that Ginny had brought it up, his mind lingered on the little he had seen of his younger brothers lately, and now his lips pulled at a frown. He hadn't been able to place a finger on it before, but she was right about something ... different about them. He had brushed it off before as the stress of their hospitalized father, or even the fact that they were now legal, supposedly mature adults ... but perhaps he should have paid it more mind. It had been over a year since he saw them last – at the Quidditch World Cup – and Charlie wondered, suddenly, if in his absence he even could still say he knew the twins at all.

He shook off that unsettling thought, raising his head at a scuffle of motion in the doorway; a figure in a blue jumper had a hand on the doorframe, edging uncertainly into the room.

"Char? You wanted to see me?" George tilted his head toward where his older brother stood at the sink. Charlie's freckled face broke into a grin and he gestured him over.

"So you _do_ still live here. Help me with these vegetables, will you? This way we should stay out of Mum's way – she's about to throw a fit now, I think." George nodded and ventured over to the sink, poking a finger into the steaming water with a frown.

"So – what d'you want me to -?"

"Let's see, we'll clean these up, then cut them for the salad," Charlie said brightly. "Then I think Mum wants us to do the cranberry sauce."

George rolled up his sleeves and fished both hands into the sink, his stare unfocused. Charlie watched him a moment, leaning against the counter.

"Where's Fred?"

George shrugged. "Mum prolly recruited him, too."

"Yeah, I suppose," Charlie rationalized, and then he grinned, "Don't worry, I'll at least go easy on you, unlike a certain slave driver."

"Yeah. Thanks." George didn't quite smile but continued to drag his hands through the water, idly scrubbing lettuce and carrots with his fingers. Charlie finally remembered his own duties and disengaged his stare, instead peering about for the cutting board.

"Haven't seen the cutting board, have you?" he finally appealed his younger brother. George shook his head without looking up. With a shrug, Charlie instead withdrew his wand. "_Accio_ cutting board!"

For a moment there was silence; then something flickered at the corner of his eye and Charlie turned to see a flat wooden board whizzing toward them from a drawer across the room. As it picked up speed he had the sense to warn, "Oi, heads up!"

George ducked, and the cutting board clattered onto the counter beside him a moment later, skidding a few feet along and hanging half over the edge. Charlie grinned, pushing it away from the edge, missing the flicker of fear in George's eyes. "All right, now all we need are the knives –"

"_Charlie Weasley_!"

Charlie froze; their mother had just appeared in the doorway, hands on hips, a box of decorations at her feet from where she had apparently just dropped it. Her lips were pursed and Charlie knew from experience that an explosive telling-off was coming on. "You of all people should know better than to whip his wand out for every tiny little thing! Imagine what an example you're setting for your brothers – not that they _need_ it -!"

"Relax, Mum," Charlie raised his hands in his defence. "I was just looking for the cutting board."

"Only the cutting board -! Next you'll have enchanted the knives, and in case you didn't notice, you nearly decapitated your brother -!"

Fred squeezed past Mrs Weasley into the room, trailing an armful of tinsel. Ignored by her growing rant, he inched over to where George stood at the sink and whispered to him, "All right? I can do this, you know –"

George shrugged him off; Charlie, watching them from the corner of his eye, caught the flicker of motion as Fred reached out and squeezed his twin's hand; a moment later they had drawn apart again. From her angle, Mrs Weasley couldn't have seen it even if she had attention for anything but Charlie at the moment.

"All right," Charlie cut her off at last. "Yeesh. No more magic, I got it." He pocketed his wand and moved toward the drawer Mrs Weasley indicated – he found lying within a line of honed knives, and selected two. When he rejoined George by the sink, Mrs Weasley had left again, dragging Fred with her.

Charlie fished out the first handful of carrots and began mincing them methodically. "So. How's it like to be the oldest in the school now?" He grinned sideways at his brother.

George only shrugged. "All right, I guess."

Maybe it was only the fact that he was speaking to him alone, without Fred's additional energy – but Charlie never recalled George to be so quietly withdrawn. He tried again. "Have you broken the record for most house points lost in a year yet?"

"Dunno ... haven't been in trouble as much ... been busy with other things."

"I'd never thought I'd see the day," said Charlie with a half-hearted smirk, still staring at him; George did not meet his eye and he again began to feel something was wrong. He forced a grin, "What's distracted you, then? It wouldn't be a girl, by any chance?"

George snorted at that. "Yeah, right," he muttered, more to himself, it seemed, than his brother, dumping another handful of wet carrots on the cutting board. Charlie's mind flashed back to what Ginny had said – it was crazy, but maybe she was on to something...

"So, tell me ... this joke shop idea you and Fred had last year, you still working on that?"

"Yeah, I guess," George evaded again. "We've got some stuff made ... sold some of it on the side, by owl, but we had to stop ... they're monitoring owls now at Hogwarts..."

"Ah," said Charlie. "Anything new and awesome I should know about?"

"...No."

"Waiting on another grand idea, I suppose."

"Yeah."

Their monosyllabic exchange was getting nowhere fast; with a sigh, Charlie switched to the direct approach.

"If you've got anything on your mind, you know you can tell me, all right? Both of you... I won't tell Mum and I won't get mad at you, I promise, no matter what."

George's shoulders tensed but he said nothing, only silently returning to the task at hand. When he had dredged the last of the vegetables from the sink and dumped them, sopping wet, on the counter, he brushed past his brother toward the doorway.

"If Fred asks, I'm upstairs," he said shortly before heading out into the hall. Charlie watched his younger brother's back disappear from sight, frowning to himself; he did not stop his course, however, and returned to his work alone, now discreetly withdrawing his wand to hasten it along.

As he oversaw the vegetables chopping themselves and leaping lightly into the salad bowl, Charlie reasoned to keep a closer eye on the twins from now on; even if they said nothing, he hadn't known them this long without picking up when one of them was terribly hurt.

**·:·**

"George!" Fred panted, sighting his twin headed upstairs with one hand on the rail. He stopped short, waiting patiently for Fred to clamber up to the first landing alongside him, nearly bent double and gasping.

"Mum let you go, too?" George asked him, raising an eyebrow. Fred grimaced, straightening.

"Nah – I escaped while she an' Ron were putting up the tree. C'mon then, I need a break ... think I've got some chocolate stashed in my trunk, let's go check."

George nodded, his gaze distant again; they started up the stairs when George tensed suddenly. A moment later Fred heard footsteps above them, and then a smaller figure came into view – Hermione gave a startled squeak to see them both, hastily stowing something behind her back, but not before Fred caught the flicker of bright paper. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Hey, Hermione."

"Oh, hi," she echoed, nervously shifting on her feet. "Erm, well – I was going to put this under the tree, but I suppose you can open it now – yes, it's probably best if you do," she was now mumbling to herself, shifting through the parcels in her hands – from their respective shapes, Fred deemed them to all be books, and with difficulty refrained from smirking.

"Right – here." Hermione found what she was looking for, and pushed a red package into George's arms. He blinked in surprise, weighing it in his hands.

"Hermione, you really shouldn't have –"

"Nonsense. You're my friends, too." Hermione huffed a lock of hair from her eyes, retrieving a second colourful parcel and holding it out to Fred. He noted with chagrin that it was also book-shaped.

"Thanks, Hermione," Fred said, George echoing his statement. Apparently unable to staunch his curiosity, George was already tugging at the wrapping paper, and Fred with a grin joined in.

"...You got me a book, didn't you," George said a moment later as the paper came off a large hardcover shape, the cover leathery but devoid of printing; as he ran his fingers over it, however, George's brow furrowed. "_Hogwarts: A History_?"

Hermione nodded, blushing faintly. "So you don't have to borrow my copy. I'm so glad you find it interesting ... there's so many things that the average student is completely ignorant to at Hogwarts..." She pursed her lips at Fred as she spoke, and he smiled innocently, pretending to have no idea what she was talking about.

"Thanks," George repeated with feeling. "It _is_ really interesting ... though I don't expect I can memorize it like you have, so please forgive my continued ignorance."

Hermione flushed slightly at the compliment; Fred snorted and returned his attention to the half-open gift in his hands: he raised an eyebrow at the cover's image of a rabbit emerging from a top hat.

"Muggle magic tricks," Hermione explained. "I thought – for your joke shop, it might be interesting, you know."

"I think Dad was talking about those once ..." George reflected, tilting his head. "Something about a deck of cards, only they didn't explode or anything ... Muggles have a weird sense of humour..."

Fred nodded, at once amazed that Hermione remembered them mentioning the shop, and a little intrigued by the idea. "Thanks, we'll put this to good use." Hermione beamed at them; reaching out to give a subtle tug on George's sleeve, Fred started upstairs again – then he hesitated and grinned.

"Happy Christmas, 'Mione." He leaned forward and, catching her by surprise, quickly kissed her on the lips. Hermione's eyes widened as he drew back, still grinning cheekily, and pointed above her head – "Mistletoe."

"I didn't even see it there," George said in mock seriousness, stepping forward as well. He reached out a hand and found the side of her face; he brushed aside her bangs gently to kiss her cheek.

"You could've warned me," Hermione spluttered, bright red now. Fred and George split into identical evil grins.

"Nah," said Fred, "this way is far more amusing."

"Thanks for everything, Hermione," George said meanwhile, starting past her and reaching out for the rail to head upstairs. Hermione, meanwhile, beamed after the twins, despite the fact that her cheeks were still bright pink.

"Don't mention it."

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Note: Meant all in fun, I promise. Unless you want to take it otherwise, in which case I won't stop you. :D Please review!


	18. Lonely

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Edits as usual. I think this might actually happen a little earlier this time around...?

* * *

**Chapter 18 - Lonely**

_"I don't want to be lonely anymore."_

_-Lonely No More, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

A rumble of conversation filled the long hallway; witches and wizards filtered through into the kitchen, keeping their voices low as to not disturb the draped portraits on either wall. Invisible in the shadows of the first landing, George perched, leaning against the barred railing with one hand coiled around it, idly tracing with his fingertips the ornate patterns carved in the wood.

For an hour now he had held the same post, listening to the conversations of those passing by below, only ever disturbed by someone hurrying up or downstairs – and even then whoever it was would only offer a cheery greeting before moving on. Overall, he rather liked it up here; there was a slight nook between the first landing railing and the wall jutting outward of Ginny and Hermione's room, and it provided just enough space for him to curl there, with his knees to his chest, his broad shoulders just brushing up against the wall. From here, he was only in sight of those standing directly across from him on the narrow landing or on the top step; thus he could listen in below without feeling the terrible need to check his every action in case he slipped up again. Besides, his previous refuge of the twins' room proved currently unavailable, as now Charlie and Bill – who had arrived after lunch from work – were also squeezed in with them.

A faint rustle overhead made him raise his head. "Hey," said Fred's voice, his twin settling on the stairs beside him. "I brought the Ears."

"'s no use," George mumbled. "I've been listening ... they haven't said anything about the Order." He sensed Fred was staring at him and shifted, tugging idly at the sleeves of his jumper. "I ... I can hear them, that's all."

"George, that's –" But whatever Fred had been about to say was cut off by renewed screaming from below; George winced and pressed his hands to his ears.

"And that would be the third time that's happened," he muttered ruefully as Sirius and Mrs Weasley shouted down below, running about stunning portraits. "Let me guess, someone knocked the troll leg over, again."

Fred leaned over the rail. "Yeah, it was Tonks. Seriously, you heard all that?"

"Yeah ... and I'm really good at guessing." George offered a lopsided grin. "C'mon, Fred, if all _you_ had to rely on was sound, you'd pick up on these things, too."

"No, I wouldn't," Fred said unabashedly. "I talk too much to listen that well, y'know."

"Ah. True." George smirked. "Oblivious, as always."

The sound tapered off down below, and in the silence Mrs Weasley ushered their guests into the kitchen. Distantly the clattering of pots and utensils rang out; neither Fred nor George moved from their sentinel post, comfortable to avoid their mother's ire and chore designation for now.

Footsteps tramped on the stairs above. George tilted his head slightly, gauging the appearance of four people. "Hey," said Ron's voice from above. "Dinner ready, yet?"

"Duh, no," scoffed Fred, "don't you think we'd be down there if it was?"

Ron muttered something to Fred that would have earned him a clap about the ears from his mother. Ginny, meanwhile, leaned against the rail next to George, peering downstairs.

"Is the whole Order here?"

"Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Mundungus are definitely here," George reported without looking up. "Dunno 'bout the rest."

"Oh, good," said Ginny absent-mindedly. "I've been meaning to ask Tonks about how she keeps her hair so sleek..."

Down below, Mrs Weasley called out, "Dinner, you lot! I need someone to set the table!"

"Coming," said Ron, and he and the others tramped downstairs. As their footsteps faded into the din of clattering from the kitchen, George gingerly rose from his post and stretched grandly, his joints popping from sitting still so long.

"Shall we?" Fred said merrily. George nodded, a little uncertainly, but the growling of his stomach reminded him that he'd skipped lunch after Charlie's uncomfortably investigational enquiries, and right about now he would risk even the crowded kitchen for a home-cooked meal. And besides ... it _was _Christmas, after all.

George trailed a hand along the rail as he followed Fred downstairs; the hall was mercifully deserted and they edged toward the open kitchen door, emitting a flow of light across his vision. George blinked, figuring he'd spent a good enough time in the shadows today for it to come as a difference. In front of them rose the merry chatter and clatter of dishes from the kitchen; George slowed, his heart pounding, cowed by the notion of entering that bright room. He reached out a hand, finding Fred had also stopped in front of him, and took hold of his hand out of a need for that guiding contact more than anything else.

But just then Fred's hand tensed beneath his, and George dimly perceived a shadow blocking out the light of the kitchen's doorway. Who...? But before he could appeal Fred for an answer, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, George knew: there was a pungent odour of drink and something grossly sweeter about the interloper, and George coughed slightly, edging closer to Fred.

"Hey, Mundungus," Fred said guardedly. "Didn't think Mum would let you back in here."

"We all have our ways of getting around tha', don't we?" Mundungus Fletcher lowered his voice conspiringly. "Listen – I've got something tha' might be of int'rest to you two, if you're still in the business."

Fred's hand tightened on his until George suspected he was losing circulation. He, however, had different matters on his mind: he shifted uncomfortably, not liking the way he could feel Mundungus's eyes on him – as though he could see right through him –

"How about later then, Dung?" Fred said with an effort of keeping his voice airy. "I think Mum's looking for us now." George would have shot him a look of relief then, if it wouldn't have given the entire guise away. He was on edge enough without having to deal with this right now...

"Best do it now, while they're all distracted there," Mundungus countered, still in a low growl. His coat pockets rustled. "Eh? What say you? I'll give you a good deal – half off what you'd find on the black market –"

"Well, look, we'd love to and all –" Fred began.

"Excuse me," a voice loudly declared behind Mundungus, "_some_ of us need to get through here." George gave a start to hear Hermione; there was a lot of shuffling and Mundungus muttering, and in the confusion Fred tightened his grip and dragged George forward into the kitchen. He blinked in the rush of warmth and light, absorbing the sudden shift in sensations all at once. At his shoulder Fred muttered, "Thanks, 'Mione."

George froze where he was, forcing himself not to flinch like a flighty deer when someone bustled past him, close enough to brush his elbow. He clutched to Fred's arm, futilely fighting down utter terror.

"Right, then." Fred had apparently regained his bearings, and gave George a slight tug forward. "Hey, Char," he said brightly, "mind if we sit next to you?"

Not exactly subtle, but it worked. George smiled faintly as he heard the scraping of chairs, and sat down next to Charlie. "Gonna go grab some Butterbeer," Fred said from his right. "Sound good?"

"Yeah," George responded quietly, reaching out a hand to wander his fingers across the tabletop. Instead of rough wood, his fingers met the silky fabric of a tablecloth; apparently Mrs Weasley was pulling out all the stops for their Christmas dinner, grimy old Grimmauld Place or not. He heard Fred's footsteps retreat, then lost track of his twin in the clamour of the kitchen. To distract himself from the sudden feeling of exposure, of loneliness, George focused on finding where his silverware was.

"So," Charlie said from beside him. "Believe it or not, I made the cranberry sauce without brutally maiming myself."

"Really? What an accomplishment," George said dryly. "You're such a good role model." He stopped prodding at his fork and knife and instead looked off to his right, hoping Fred would come back soon. It wasn't that he didn't love Charlie to pieces, now, but ... he couldn't help the fear rising in his chest as he remembered their earlier conversation – more like a police enquiry in actuality. Charlie knew something was up, George was certain of that. But keeping him from finding the root of it would be a task, to say the least.

The table filled up around them with chatter; laughter rang out from the girls as apparently Tonks put on her usual show of funky noses. Fleur complained to anyone who would listen about the cold weather – a snowstorm had earlier blanketed Diagon Alley as she and Bill left work, from what he gathered. Farther along the table, Mrs Weasley fussed over her newly-returned home husband, who insisted he was perfectly healthy now.

"Here you go." George pulled himself out of his observation to hear Fred thumping his filled glass back down. George nodded slightly in thanks – his throat dry – and reached for the Butterbeer, deducing its position by the sound. Beside him Fred pulled out his chair and sat down, too, distracting Charlie with the topic of Quidditch. Between them George quietly drank, trying to force back the terror to the back of his mind and enjoy the very fact that they were together like this...

Nevertheless, he couldn't help but think he enjoyed the seclusion with Fred a lot better. Even here, among the laughter and warmth, he was a bystander and not a part of it; for all it would take was a single mistake, a slip of his cautious hand, and the world he knew would shatter around him again.

**·:·**

The Weasleys and the Order ate their way through delicious courses of steaming turkey, salad, and stuffing; and when at last the dishes of pudding were empty they lounged around the table, contently full. The waxy stumps of candles glimmered faintly in the growing dusk, and the Order members began to talk of leaving. There were many heartfelt thanks to Mrs Weasley for her efforts, thanks to Sirius for his hospitality, and best wishes for the bandaged Mr Weasley; then one by one the witches and wizards took up their long cloaks and filed out into the hall beyond.

Fred stretched with a yawn, settling back beside his twin. Glancing sideways, he registered once more George's unnatural silence; even if it had become a gradually accepted norm for him in the past months, it seemed all the more prominent tonight, among the crowd. Fred wasn't stupid: he knew the reason his twin evaded eye contact, silently poking his fingers through a hole in the table cloth that seemed to have grown since the start of the meal. On his other side, Charlie was also watching George, an elbow propped on the table and his head balanced against his hand. When Charlie glanced up, meeting his eye, Fred hastily offered a grin and turned away.

Nothing else seemed about to happen; all but Lupin, Tonks, and Mad-Eye Moody had already taken their leave, and any moment now Mrs Weasley would start doling out cleanup duties, something he'd rather not participate in. Fred half-rose from his chair, hopefully noting, "Well then, excellent fare. I suppose George and I'll be heading –"

"No, you will be staying here, both of you," Mrs Weasley cut him off. "It's been a long time since we had time together like this, as a family."

Fred sat back down, slouching slightly in his seat. Beside him George shifted, fiddling with the tablecloth again.

"You're uneasy, boy," Mad-Eye said sharply. The electric-blue eye whizzed around in its socket, focusing on George's face. "Something wrong?"

George stiffened in his seat and Fred saw the color drain from his cheeks. "Wha – I – I'm fine," he finished by stuttering mulishly, lowering his head again. God, that had to have scared him out of his wits. Some of the others looked curiously over at the twins, but soon someone – Harry, Fred registered distantly – started up on a new subject, mercifully distracting them. Meanwhile Fred glared at Moody, not caring if it aroused the old Auror's suspicions, for his magical eye still lingered thoughtfully on his twin. _Leave him alone, leave him alone..._

Under Moody's watchful eye, Fred could do nothing to reassure his twin, even as he sensed him growing all the more anxious. The hole in the tablecloth yawned larger. Mrs Weasley wasn't going to like that ... Thoughtlessly Fred reached over, pulling George's right hand away from the table. He felt George tense slightly at the contact and he squeezed his hand, hoping he understood the silent support; then, giving in, George dropped his hand into his lap, his shoulders slumped.

At the head of the table, Mrs Weasley rose to her feet. "Let's get this mess cleaned up, then," she ordered in a businesslike tone, hands on hips as she looked down the long table at the scattered plates, glasses, and empty serving bowls.

"You've done enough for us today, Molly," protested Tonks, rising from her seat. "Why don't I –?"

"No!" Mrs Weasley cut her off quickly, surely reminiscing Tonks's habitual clumsiness. "No, that's quite all right. Fred, George, Ron, come now, let's get these dishes washed."

A unanimous groan arose from the Weasley boys, and Fred, getting a hopeful idea, reached for his wand. Mrs Weasley's eyes flashed. "No magic! How many times do I have to tell you?"

"But, Mum –" Fred protested, his eyes unconsciously going toward George. _I don't want him to have to do this in front of everyone..._

"No buts," Mrs Weasley said firmly. "Let's go." As she spoke she collected the platter that had previously housed the turkey and now held nothing more than fatty bones, carrying it off to the sink. Fred stared helplessly after her when a hand closed on his arm. George had stood up silently, with a mere touch telling him that he would be all right. Fred chewed on his lip, and then heaved a sigh; he didn't have a choice, did he? George's eyes were downcast, but by the tensing of his shoulders, he was determined.

They shuffled around the table, Fred in the lead, picking up various utensils and dirty plates; once he had a sufficient stack, he pushed it into George's hands, assuring himself that his twin had a steady grip on it before letting go. George nodded faintly, understanding the system.

In this fashion they cleared the table, Ron across from them doing the same. An idle conversation resumed at the table, but Fred was pretty sure – by the tingling feeling at the back of his neck – that Moody's magical eye was still on him and George. He exhaled a long breath, somehow forcing himself to keep his cool; if only George could do the same. Why was he doing this to him, again? Hadn't surviving dinner been enough of an accomplishment?

Now with stacks of dishes tottering in their arms, Fred couldn't do so much as reach his twin's sleeve. Instead he offered a low, "That's it, let's go." He started off to the far side of the room, where Mrs Weasley was directing Ron to set down the dishes next to the sink. Fred kept his pace slow, wishing he had eyes on the back of his head; George was right behind him, trailing him by sound alone, his breathing hitching.

Ron came toward Fred then, holding out his arms. "I'll take those." He was looking a little nervously at George behind them – Fred with a jolt understood, and his expression conveyed more thanks than words alone could hold; with a nod he shifted his load unto his younger brother and hastened back to help George.

He wasn't sure how it happened, then: perhaps the shift in sound confused him, or George in his utter focus to maintain his balance had lost track of his path. But the next thing any of them knew George's foot caught on the leg of a chair one of the departing Order had pushed back – his eyes flashed wide as he stumbled, fighting for balance, and lost; he pitched forward, the mess of dishes toppling onto the floor.

CRASH!

Shards of white porcelain skittered in every direction; in the midst of the carnage George was on his knees, his hands pressed on the ground in front of him, his expression utterly dazed. All thought of the onlookers now rising up from their chairs, concerned, flew from Fred's mind as he rushed forward –

"George!"

Horrified, he dropped to his knees beside his twin, ignorant to the prick of ceramics beneath him; shakily he reached out, touching a hand to George's shoulder. "George ... are you -?"

George didn't answer; he drew a trembling breath and held out a hand, registering the chair leg he'd tripped over. His expression was blank, his eyes glassy. Fred stifled a faint moan in his fist to see a thin cut against his temple, garishly scarlet against his ashen face.

"George, you're hurt..."

George reached up, touching two fingers to the cut; if he felt his fingers come away sticky with blood, it did not register on his face. Fred cast around the rest of the broken glass around them – by some miracle, that was the only injury he'd sustained. _Bloody git ..._ Fred was suddenly furious at himself. How could he have dragged George into this? God knew he didn't need this...

"Georgie, are you all right?" Mrs Weasley hustled over, looking equally terrified. She flicked her wand distractedly at the dishes and they flew back together, landing in a neat stack off to the side; but her concern was elsewhere. She crouched next to her sons, turning George's head in her hands to see his wound. "Oh, you poor thing ... I'll get you some ointment ... thank heavens you didn't land on the glass, now..."

As she fussed, George tensed; something of the guardedness of months ago came into his eyes, and he twisted away from her touch.

"'m fine ... leave me alone..."

"Now, now, just let me see..." By the blanched color of her cheeks, Fred knew Mrs Weasley didn't want to risk anything after what had happened to Mr Weasley. She tuttered faintly as she touched her wand to his cheek: the wound slowly began to seal itself. George flinched away from her wand as though it had burned him.

"It's pointless..." he mumbled.

"Nonsense, Georgie, just hold still a moment – it'll all be better –"

"No," George said again, his voice growing louder as he drew back from her. In his wide blue eyes, Fred saw his composure fall apart again. "D-don't bother, it's not s-something you can see."

"What isn't? What isn't, Georgie?" Mrs Weasley's voice quavered as she gripped his shoulders, gently. George said nothing else, dropping his gaze. Mrs Weasley repeated, more softly, "What can't I see, Georgie?" She pressed a hand against his forehead, gently brushing aside his damp bangs.

"'m fine..." he repeated dazedly. "'m fine Mum ... but..."

Mrs Weasley waited for him to continue, quietly brushing back his hair. Fred saw the struggle pass over George's face; he reached out as if to comfort him, and then just as unconsciously stopped. Somehow, Fred knew that George needed to do this himself.

George twisted his head away from his mother's imploring stare, drawing a long shaky breath; there was dead silence in the background, all eyes on the trio on the floor. And then George spoke hoarsely, unwaveringly.

"I'm blind, Mum."

Mrs Weasley's breath caught; she froze, one hand hovering against his forehead. "Wh-what did you say?"

George repeated the revelation, straightening as he did so; his jaw clenched, a defiant tilt to his chin. From the corner of his eye Fred saw the others at the table shifting and looking at one another uncomfortably. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were not meeting anyone's eye.

"Oh ... _oh_," Mrs Weasley said at last, and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Georgie ... my little boy..." With a stifled sort of wail, she nearly smothered him to her chest in a hug. Fred saw bewilderment flicker on George's face before he allowed himself to ease into her arms. He said nothing, leaning into her embrace.

"I ... I don't know what to say ... the war's hardly started and – and already –" Her shoulders trembled and she clutched tighter to him. George was looking a little terrified of her reaction now, and Fred decided to step in.

"Mum ... Mum, he's all right, really," Fred objected. Mrs Weasley didn't answer, now rocking slightly back and forth, holding him to her chest. George didn't protest, blinking rapidly.

Mr Weasley hobbled over from the table, pressing a hand to Mrs Weasley's shoulder. "Perhaps it is best if we have a word," he murmured. Mrs Weasley sniffed, at last drawing back from George and scrubbing at her face.

"Yes ... yes, of course, you're right, Arthur. Everyone ... bed." She stood up, looking across at where the other teens stood about the kitchen table. Ron and Ginny immediately protested in outrage, but Mrs Weasley, her eyes narrowing, was back to her usual self. "No complaints! Upstairs, all of you, now."

Fred stood up, tugging George to his feet beside him. He stumbled, weary, and Fred held tight to his arm. Neither of them said anything; Fred only guided his brother toward the hall, feeling eyes on the back of his head the whole way. Mrs Weasley, finished shooing off the other teens, bustled back over to them and took George by the arm.

"Here we go, now," she said, guiding him toward the banister of the stairs. George stumbled under her forceful guidance, and Fred cleared his throat.

"Mum, he's all right, really. You don't have to guide him."

Mrs Weasley hesitated; George silently tugged his arm away from her, finding the stairs on his own. "Well, all right, then," she said without full conviction. "Good night." She reached out and swiftly hugged Fred – he grimaced, trying to twist out of her grasp. Then she turned her attention on George, hugging him a moment longer; when she drew back, she reluctantly released his shoulders.

Her watchful eyes lingered on the two of them all the way up the stairs, until they ascended past the first landing and out of sight.

**·:·**

The door closed softly behind them, and Fred paused a moment, clicking the lock shut, just in case Kreacher decided to come call again. George, his head downcast, ventured by memory to the bed nearest the door; on the way he nearly stumbled over the extra two sleeping bags strewn on the floor, but by now he was too tired to really feel irritated. He at last settled on the edge, his back to Fred as he slid his hands beneath the pillow, retrieving the leather-bound shape of _Hogwarts: A History_. He flipped idly to the page he had been reading that morning.

"Why ... why did you have to tell her?"

George froze at Fred's question. His brother's voice trembled slightly and George heard his footsteps pace across the room. George did not answer for a long moment, tracing the bumps along the page.

"I ... I don't want to hide anymore, Fred," he mumbled. "Besides," he raised his head, silently asking for some sort of approval with his gaze. "She'd have found out soon enough, anyway."

Fred heaved a long sigh and the mattress sank down beside him. "Just ... tell me before you pull something like this again, all right? I ... God, it kind of scared me back there."

George said nothing, staring at the book. Distantly he felt the trickle of blood against his right cheek, but he did not move to staunch it. It didn't hurt, anyway.

"Get off my bed," Fred said idly. George shrugged.

A few minutes later the mattress shifted again, and Fred padded across the room. The door creaked open.

At last George stirred. "Where're you going?"

"Don't you want to know what they're saying about you down there?"

George hesitated, then with a long sigh conceded. "I suppose you're right..." He slipped the book back beneath the pillow and stood up, following in Fred's shadow from the room.

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	19. Why

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Wow, I wasn't expecting such a reaction to the last chapter! Thanks go to all you reviewers out there! You're awesome!

**12/04/11 -** Updated. Turns out this one uploaded as the wrong chapter, too, the other day.

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**Chapter 19 - Why**

_"Now, I'm crying – isn't that what you want?_

_I'm trying to live my life on my own_

_But I won't_

_At times, I do believe I am strong_

_So someone tell me why, why, why_

_Do I feel stupid?_

_-Mad Season, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

When George crept in his brother's shadow downstairs, he at once became aware that they were not alone; there was a shuffling of motion on the first landing, and scattered mutterings punctured the silence. George instinctively slowed, reaching for Fred's sleeve.

"Who's there?"

"It's us," the answer came in a bare whisper, and George recognized Harry's voice. "And Ginny." _Oh, right ..._ Idly George wondered what she had to have thought of his revelation, but found at the moment he couldn't bring himself to care very much. He followed Fred to the railing and leaned against it, tilting his head at the murmuring echo of voices below, slightly muffled, as though the adults had thought to close the kitchen door behind them.

"Anything?" Fred asked the group crouched in breathless silence on the landing.

"Can't hear much," said Ron. "D'you have ...?"

"Yeah." Fred had a weak grin in his voice. "Think I got a spare – here." He rustled in his pockets a moment and handed off an Extendable Ear to Ron; unravelling the string of his own, he passed the receiver end to George; then he leaned out, dangling the fleshy string inch by inch downward.

"Careful ... and ... _now_." There was a faint plop of two Ears hitting the floor below, but under the mask of conversation, it went mercifully unnoticed. Then in George's hands Charlie's voice rang out, as clear as if he was standing right next to the twins.

"They're getting on pretty well on their own, I think. He and Fred – I've been watching them, and now I think it makes sense. They've got their own sort of system, and it works. Quite ingenious of them, actually."

"But that's exactly it," said Mrs Weasley. Gone were her hysterics of earlier, and now her tone was perfectly steady. She pressed on, "He can't always have Fred with him. The poor boy's utterly lost on his own. No, it's necessary: I'll owl their teachers tonight. He can't be going off to Hogwarts like this."

George's blood ran cold and he opened his mouth, wanting to ask Fred for confirmation – but now another voice spoke up on the Ear.

"Molly, I know you only mean the best for him, but I think you're overlooking the matter," Remus Lupin said tiredly. It sounded as though he had been trying to sway her for a while. "Have some confidence in them, Molly. They know how to take care of themselves. And I know I speak for nearly all of us when I say that, in these past few days, none of us could have guessed anything of this scale happening between them. And that's why I think they've already gotten a good handle on the situation themselves."

"What good will hiding do?" Mrs Weasley asked. "No – he can't do that forever. If he expects to find any sort of life when they graduate ... he needs help, from someone experienced. That's why he needs to tell –"

"You know very well what they're going to do after they graduate, Molly, and they've done it all themselves up to this point," objected Sirius. "And if they've got the genius to invent those products, then they've got a way to make it work like this."

"Again with this!" Mrs Weasley burst out. "They're not your children, Sirius, and you'd do well to remember that! You don't know – you don't know what's best for them -!"

"And I'm saying they do," Sirius countered, his voice growing louder with vehemence. "Molly, if you let the school know, he won't have a moment of peace for the rest of the year! D'you think that's what they want?"

"Sirius," Remus said sharply; Sirius fell silent. "All we're saying is, Molly, that you might be underestimating them."

"Underestimating! Those two have no sense of priorities! A joke shop was no way for them to support themselves when they were both – when they were both –" Her voice was quavering now even as it raised in volume. "If they'd have paid more mind to their schoolwork, then maybe now –"

George drew back from the railing, suddenly feeling ill. He didn't want to hear this ... he didn't want to be treated like he was invisible, like he was utterly defenceless... His eyes burned and he shook his head furiously, hating the coming tears.

"George...?" a voice ventured cautiously. Hermione laid a hand on his arm, but he just as quickly shook her off, pacing to the stairs. His mind was suddenly made up, and without mind for the consequences he grabbed the railing tightly in one hand, storming downstairs.

He crossed the hall in a familiar path to the kitchen, reaching out both hands to skim the closed door. One hand clenched against the frame as he jerked the door open and stood a moment blinking in the flood of light.

Silence fell as thickly as a shroud over the chamber. A chair scraped back and footsteps hastened to his side; Mrs Weasley folded him in a hug, smoothing down his slightly mussed hair. "Are we being too loud, dear? We're nearly finished –"

"No." His response came out flat, his gaze fixed unwaveringly past her shoulder, on the long table where he knew the Order to be sitting. "I want you to all leave my and Fred's life the hell alone."

"George –" Mrs Weasley began in a shocked whisper. But George was through with them; he was sick of all of them, the despised tears stinging his eyes again; without giving her or anyone else a chance to respond, he tore away from her grasp, rushing back out into the hall. He didn't care if it was childish ... he didn't give a _damn_ about anything anymore...

He fumbled for the railing and started up the stairs as fast as he dared; past the shocked group huddled on the landing, past their room. One flight ... two ... He didn't know where he was going; he just had to get away, get away from the hot tears stinging his cheeks and burning anew against the raw scar beneath his eye.

How could they betray him like this ... they treated him no better than a child, a helpless child! Wasn't he capable of more than that? Hadn't he spent two bloody _months_ struggling to prove that he was worth more than that? And yet –

He was nearly running now; his foot caught on a step and he went down, painfully jarring his knees as he landed. He swore under his breath, scrubbing his sleeve over his face, leaving only more tears to fill the void. He dragged himself back up against the banister and kept going, up into the dank belly of the decrepit mansion.

_Why ... why can't anyone see me as George Weasley anymore?_

He was panting heavily when he at last reached the top landing. He stood there, trembling from head to foot, uncertain of his next act. Up here, in the deadened silence, the old house creaked and groaned in the wind; if he listened he could hear the whistle of wintry air through cracks in the attic. George drew a shaky, terrified breath, now wondering if Kreacher the batty house-elf was watching him, waiting for a moment to goad him. George's stomach twisted and without a conscious decision his feet led him forward.

Feeling outward, his hands found a doorframe; he trailed his right hand along until his wrist bumped against a doorknob. Frantically he perused his memory – but as much as he thought back, George could honestly never recall venturing up this far before. Perhaps this was Sirius's chamber? He didn't want to pry in the man's personal quarters, but ... it was either that, or face the rest downstairs...

The door creaked open beneath his touch. At once George sensed, with an eerie tingling at the back of his neck, that someone – or something – was watching him. George's breath caught in his chest as icy fear closed in.

"Wh – who's there?"

Oh, God, if it was Kreacher ... George fumbled in his pocket for his wand, holding it on the empty air. A moment passed with breath bated – there was no motion, no wheezy cackle from the old elf. George tilted his head, straining his senses in the darkness, seriously wondering if he was insanely paranoid.

And then he heard a faint rustling – George's mind whirled. There was something – but if it wasn't Kreacher, and he was doubting that theory now, then what -?

Something clicked against the floorboards, the being pacing back and forth. _Nails?_ George reckoned dubiously. It rustled again – this time the sound accompanied by the clinking of metal.

"Er – hello?" George said, hoping against hope that whatever it was, it didn't like to eat lost boys. He didn't lower his wand any as he took a cautious step forward, every muscle tensing in preparation for an attack –

The thing squawked indignantly.

A rush of recognition surged through his mind. "B-Buckbeak!" Of course: Sirius's Hippogriff had to stay somewhere, didn't it? A lopsided grin crossed his face and George pocketed his wand. _God,_ he was paranoid.

But then, as he inched back toward the doorway, a thought struck him and he froze in his tracks. A very distant Care of Magical Creatures class drifted through his memory. If you encountered a Hippogriff ... showing it proper respect was paramount. Keep eye contact, and bow; if it bowed back, it was safe to carry on. If not ... well ...

Wild terror closed on his throat. He could hear Buckbeak shifting agitatedly again – had he offended it already? The door was only a few paces away ... George found himself wondering how fast Hippogriffs could move when particularly incensed.

_Well ... I've dealt with Thestrals before. This should be a walk in the park,_ George tried to convince himself. He turned back on the source of the rustling; he focused his stare on where he assumed the Hippogriff to be standing. It was wild guesswork at best – so much for eye contact ... If he got himself mauled by a Hippogriff now, his Mum would be absolutely hysteric. He could just as well forget about going back to school...

And then, spurred by that thought, George's brow creased in determination. He _could _do this, damnit. "Hey, Beaky," he called out in a bare whisper, trying to keep his thundering fear out of his voice. "It's me, George. I didn't mean to bother you, all right? So let's just do this nice and slow now..." Struggling to keep his face tilted to the Hippogriff's position, he stooped forward in a gradual bow.

The silence was deafening. Buckbeak did not move; or at least he couldn't hear the rustle of its feathers. Was it readying to attack? George's heart was hammering, filling the void with his fear.

Then, suddenly, feathers rustled in front of him. Was that it? George was holding his breath, unable to deduce the Hippogriff's response by sound alone. Right then ... he had to take a chance ... One hand clenched around his wand, then he realized that might make him look hostile; and so, petrified, he dropped his hands where Buckbeak could see them and took a single step forward.

Nothing happened. He stepped again, listening desperately, flinching when he heard another rustle, and Buckbeak's long claws clicked forward. "Er – hey," he began nervously, "'m not gonna hurt you now, so no need –"

Something hard and warm bumped against his arm. George stifled a gasp and instinctively reached out, his fingers finding the curve of Buckbeak's beak; he wandered his fingers slowly upward when the Hippogriff remained complacent, tracing the oddly soft feathers of its sharp face, its regal crown; as he stroked the side of Buckbeak's neck the Hippogriff crooned faint enjoyment. George grinned.

"See? It's not so bad, is it."

His fingers brushed something cold at the beast's neck, and curiously he wrapped his hand around metal chains. Ah – that would explain the noise earlier. Buckbeak was on a crude harness, the rope trailing from its neck taut enough that it wouldn't have been able to go much farther forward. Now George felt rather foolish for his earlier paranoia. Of course Sirius wouldn't let the Hippogriff free to wreck havoc on the rest of the house ... well, all right, he'd have done it, but the rest of the Order wouldn't have let him.

Grinning now, George leaned forward and pressed his face to Buckbeak's warm neck, the Hippogriff's steady breathing warm and comforting in his ear. Buckbeak twisted around, its beak gently nipping at George's hair. He laughed but made no effort to stop its foraging.

"I don't taste that great, I promise." Buckbeak squawked in almost contention of this fact, and George laughed.

_If only they could see me now..._ he found himself thinking. _If they saw me now, would they still think I'm so weak? Would you, Mum? Fred and I can handle ourselves ... we _want_ to handle this ourselves. If not, how is the world ever going to see me as who I am, as George Weasley...?_

Behind him, the door creaked open; George stiffened, cursing under his breath, as Buckbeak shook its head beneath his hands. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts he hadn't even heard the interlopers approaching...!

Breath bated, George took his only option and turned toward the door, waiting in the open, his jaw defiantly tilted upward.

**·:·**

Fred stood on the first landing, alone now; shortly after George had stormed off, the teens concluded that nothing more could be gained from the quiet murmurings downstairs and the others had disbanded. Now he leaned against the railing, silently ravelling the fleshy string of their Extendable Ear. With a long sigh Fred at last pocketed the invention, scrubbing a fist across his eyes.

_Well ..._ whatever George had been planning by breaking the news to their family had completely backfired, that much was clear. Mrs Weasley's vehemence to contact their professors was hardly dissuaded by George's warning; and on top of that, she had arranged to bring him in to St Mungo's tomorrow morning in some vain effort to heal him.

_There's nothing you can do ..._ Fred thought darkly. _George _knows_ it's permanent, so why can't you stop badgering him already?_ Fred shook his head in an attempt to dispel the anger brewing in his mind; didn't Mrs Weasley realize how many months Fred had spent coaxing George back from running away? And now he was off on his own all over again in a much more precarious environment...

Fred drew back from the railing. He had to find his twin – that much was certain – before Kreacher did. But as he started across the landing, a hushed voice from below made him stop in his tracks.

"Fred? Is that you?"

Charlie appeared at the base of the stairs, his head tilted up at him. Fred hesitated; then, recognizing that he'd already been spotted, padded out of the shadows once more, his shoulders slumping.

"Yeah, Char?"

Charlie didn't respond immediately, but came upstairs to join him on the landing. He peered down into the shadows of the hall, his expression masked in darkness. "How much did you hear?"

Fred wasn't remotely surprised that he knew they'd been listening in; however, brother or not, he couldn't risk losing the last of their Ears to Mrs Weasley's purge. "Enough," he settled on curtly.

"Then you know Mum's taking him in to St Mungo's tomorrow."

Fred said nothing. Charlie glanced up the stairs into gloom. "Where's George?"

"Somewhere."

"You can stop being so cold," Charlie said idly, leaning his elbows against the railing. "I don't agree with what she's doing ... I mean, you two're adults now and we all know you can take care of yourselves. She means well, you know that, but sometimes she goes a bit overboard with her protectiveness ... like now."

"I don't know where he went," Fred said shortly. "You can blame Mum for that. I'm through running after him."

"Running after...? Does he do that a lot, then?"

"No. Not now anyway ... before, yes."

"Before?"

Somehow Fred found the story spilling out of him in a hushed whisper: maybe it was the fact that he had been bottled up about it for so long, or the fact that at last someone was on his side, but it came a lot easier than expected to recount to Charlie the events of the past two months. His older brother listened in silence, and he was all the more grateful to him for it.

"It's not something you can heal, this," Fred said at last, gesturing weakly with his hands. "It's not that simple, there's no spell or potion to bring back his sight, unlike what Mum thinks. But ... I think we were getting close to finding something else. Acceptance. A new sort of life. But now... I don't know anymore, Char. I think George knew it'd come down to this eventually, but neither of us could've thought so soon..."

Charlie nodded and then, without warning, reached his arms out and pulled Fred into a hug. Fred had hardly noticed until now, but his shoulders were shaking; gratefully he leaned into his older brother's embrace, suddenly feeling much younger, much less experienced.

"This'll blow over," Charlie promised. "You know how Mum is. She'll see in the end ... Bill and I are still working on her, as it is."

Fred's voice was bitter. "I just wish she could see how much things have changed since November. She wouldn't be so damn hard on him if she knew –" He trailed off in helpless frustration.

"I know," Charlie said gently. "You've both been through a lot in such a short time, and I think she needs to understand that that's changed you ... that all this time it's just been the two of you..." His arms tightened around Fred. "Don't worry about Mum," he repeated. "You've done so much already, and Fred ... I'm proud of you."

"It's not enough ... not enough for him." Fred drew away gruffly. "We've got to find him, Char, before he hurts himself..." Charlie nodded, at once understanding, and the two started upstairs together.

**·:·**

George held his breath, standing defiantly with one hand resting against Buckbeak's neck as the door creaked open. The Hippogriff shook itself with a squawk.

"Hey, Beaky, we brought you something," Sirius's voice said jauntily. There was a rustle of some object swinging at his side, and Buckbeak edged excitedly beneath George's touch. Then the pair of footsteps stopped.

"George, is that you?" This time it was Remus's voice, softer, mild. In response George only nodded tersely; he recalled the two men must have witnessed his outburst against Mrs Weasley earlier and turned his head, something between defiance and shame burning his cheeks.

"Kreacher must've left the door unlocked again," Sirius said, drawing nearer; he must have offered something to the Hippogriff, for the next instant Buckbeak stretched its neck forward, eagerly snapping and chomping. George distinctly heard the crunching of bones and felt his stomach twist. "Beaky's not bothering you, is he?"

"No," George said at once, running his hand through thick feathers. "I ... Animals seem to like me more than humans sometimes." If his voice had turned bitter, then, neither of the men commented on it.

"Beaky's a real softie at heart, aren't you?" Sirius said affectionately, scratching behind the Hippogriff's ears; Buckbeak crooned. "Glad you're getting along. Suppose he's getting lonely up here by himself."

George said nothing; his shoulders were tense and he knew that any moment now they would bring up his revelation – he didn't want to talk to anyone about it now, well meaning or not. He jutted his chin, defiant, but the two went on mildly, bantering between themselves.

"It can't be good to feed him all those ferrets at once, you know."

"Ah, it's Christmas. He deserves a little treat."

It was perhaps just as unnerving to hear them going on as if nothing was different. Taking a deep breath, George intervened. "You probably all think I should be locked up in St Mungo's, too, don't you?"

Sirius and Remus stopped short.

"No one said that," Sirius said at last. "Wouldn't do anything, either. Out of all the sorts of wizards running amok these days, you're the least crazy."

George tilted his head, bemused by Sirius's wry tone. Remus went on quietly, "For the record, Sirius and I were against your mother's proposition. Forgive me, for I am not blind myself ... however, I would like to say that I went through something similar, in my particular condition, when I was at Hogwarts."

"It's not the end of the world, George. I know it's hard. But ... the best thing that happened to me was to have my friends understand my condition as a werewolf. Of course, not everyone took it well at first," he laughed, "but in time they came to realize that I was still the same person –"

" – save for claws and a tail –" Sirius interjected.

" – at the full moon," Remus countered. "I didn't ask for sympathy from my friends. I didn't want it. But they gave me something else: the opportunity to live again, not inhibited by my own fears and shame. You're lucky, George, that you're not alone. You have Fred. And in time ... I think your mother and the others will learn to accept that, too."

George stared at his feet. He didn't know what to say ... a lump rose in his throat and suddenly he felt even more ashamed of his earlier outburst. "I – I'm sorry –"

"Quite all right," Remus cut him off with a smile in his voice.

"We're all allowed a little release once in a while. Go on, now, let it out," said Sirius jovially.

George smiled weakly. He felt drained of his previous anger and now quietly stroked Buckbeak's flank, standing alone with the two of them in the dark room.

"Thank you."

_To be continued..._

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Aww. I still love the Marauders. :) I think George needed that.

Please review!


	20. Undone

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Edits. I must say I like this chapter now, thanks to Fred. :D

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**Chapter 20 - Undone**

_"You figured me out – I'm a child and I'm hopeless_

_Bleeding and broken - though I've never spoken_

_I come undone - in this mad season."_

_-Mad Season, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

Fred sat up in bed, his arms coiled over his knees, watching the faint rise and fall of his brother's chest in the bed across from him. By the thin light filtering through the curtains, it was early morning already; yet somehow he couldn't bring himself to go back to sleep, not even with Charlie snoring faintly on the floor next to them. His mind was wide awake nevertheless the strain of his body, his shoulders throbbing faintly from sitting propped against the headboard for so long, thoughts chasing one another through his mind.

Last night it had been Sirius and Remus who apparently found George, accompanying him back to their third floor room at some time after midnight; then, too tired to explain, George had climbed into bed (choosing, once more, Fred's), uttering only something like "I'm sorry" to his brother. Now Fred blinked slowly and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. Downstairs he could hear the faintest clatter of pots and pans – apparently Mrs Weasley was already up and about preparing breakfast.

He wasn't hungry, either, after last night. His stomach twisted sickly to think that in a few hours Mrs Weasley would be dragging George off to St Mungo's to confirm what the twins already knew ... Fred wasn't stupid: he knew that was the last place George wanted to go, today of all days.

As he waited in the dark, a plan began to take form in the back of his mind. By the time Charlie and Bill started stirring at their feet, he had already made up his mind. He silently padded across the room to their trunks; in the dark he blindly fumbled among their bundled robes to find the woollen jumper. _There_ – he pulled it on overtop his pyjamas, purposefully leaving his hair ruffled from bed as he wandered back across the room and perched on the edge of his bed to wait, head tilted slightly to the side.

Bill and Charlie eventually fought a way free of their tangled sleeping bags, both yawning widely; "Breakfast already?" muttered Charlie, running a hand through his hair.

"Think so," whispered Fred. "I can hear Mum downstairs."

"Great," said Bill, stretching. His eyes wandered across to the bed nearest the door. "Should we wake him up?"

"Nah," said Fred flippantly, "you know Fred, he sleeps like a rock. I'm hungry." He hopped off the edge of the bed, a moment pausing and raising his hands slightly as if to restore his balance. Then he followed Bill toward the door; Charlie cast him a very odd look, and Fred winked.

Understanding then, Charlie winked back, and offered his arm in support. The three older Weasley boys descended into the sweet aroma of the kitchen. Mrs Weasley was already making eggs and bacon – Fred's stomach growled despite his mental resistance. Mrs Weasley hurried toward them.

"Good morning –" She quickly kissed them each on the cheek, taking a moment longer to embrace Fred. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Fred only shrugged, forcing his stare away. Mrs Weasley had a hand on his arm as she pulled him toward the table. Fred went along with it, pretending to fumble around a bit before sitting. He leaned against the tabletop, mentally forcing himself to keep his unfocused stare on an odd burn in the wood. He had kept a hawk's eye on George for two months – it wouldn't be that hard, now, to imitate the distant manners his brother had picked up.

"I'll get you something to drink," said Charlie, and he moved off. Mrs Weasley returned momentarily to pile a generous amount of eggs on his plate.

"Now, George, I'm heading to St Mungo's this morning to pick up your father's prescriptions," Mrs Weasley said, in her distracted state mercifully not paying overly mind to his appearance. As before, the jumper's single letter was enough. "I've arranged for a healer to see you at the same time."

"It wouldn't have been too hard to ask me first, now would it?" Fred muttered darkly. His comment did not go unnoticed by Mrs Weasley, whose lips pursed.

"Come now, it won't hurt you to see a healer. He'll be able to tell – to tell if you're staying healthy," she concluded after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, that will be best. Eat up, dear, please."

"'m not hungry," Fred brooded, but nevertheless picked up his fork and started poking at the eggs experimentally. Charlie came by to bring him some orange juice. Fred nodded in faint thanks as he pressed the glass into his hands.

He breakfasted slowly – eating enough to satisfy his mother and his own secret ravenousness, but taking long enough that it qualified as a sort of passive resistance. Mrs Weasley seemed to hover more than usual, her eyes on the back of his head; it was rightly unnerving and Fred forced himself to slow his movements, ensuring he wasn't making any glaring mistakes. When Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny trooped into the kitchen, Fred welcomed her distraction as she bustled off to make more scrambled eggs.

Ron opened his mouth to say something to him, but Fred swiftly kicked him under the table and shook his head slightly, an eye on Mrs Weasley's back. Ron closed his mouth. The others, from this, at once understood the ruse; solemnly they resumed eating, the occasional anxious glance shot in his direction. Ginny beside them was staring at Fred, chewing on her lip. Fred wondered if he should say something to her, but at that moment Mrs Weasley returned, loading their plates.

"Now then, we're missing someone," she said briskly, hands on hips. "I suppose I'll have to wake him –"

"I'll go get Fred," Charlie interceded quickly, rising from his seat next to Fred. Fred didn't look at him, even as his gratitude to his older brother washed over him; a moment later Charlie had hastened out of the room and his footsteps faded into the silent hall.

Mrs Weasley cast a glance at her watch. "We should be leaving now," she tutted. "Our appointment's first thing – if he doesn't hurry, Fred won't be able to come with us –"

A cold fear seized in his chest. "Mum, that's all right," Fred said quickly. "I – I'll go alone. He'll be bored there."

Mrs Weasley stared at him, mystified. This was probably the first time, Fred reckoned distantly, that the twins actually wanted to be apart. He swallowed hard and instead made to rise with his half-finished dishes.

"I'll get that, dear," Mrs Weasley cut in, gently pressing him back down in his seat with a hand on his shoulder. "No – you stay here." She swiftly carried the dishes to the sink. Fred, watching her, supposed she hadn't so soon forgotten George's accident with the dishes ... the thought made him divert his gaze, a lump rising in his throat.

At that moment two figures in the doorway distracted him: Charlie stepped into the room, followed by George, his hair still tousled from bed, wearing Fred's jumper, and blinking around the bright kitchen in confusion.

"There you are," Mrs Weasley said, bustling toward him. "Now, Fred, in a minute George and I are leaving to St Mungo's – I think you should come with us, now, as you know his ... situation best."

George did not protest; evidently Charlie had explained the situation to him, as he merely nodded, gaze downcast.

"Can Charlie come with us then?" Fred appealed their mother quickly. However, he was still looking at George; he didn't want him to be left alone waiting with Mrs Weasley. "I – I want him to come."

"Well, all right, dear," Mrs Weasley said with warmth in her voice. "Now, then – I'll get your coats from the hall – let's go –"

As she bustled out of the room, Fred discreetly grabbed some fresh toast from the table, bundling it in a napkin and stuffing it out of sight. On their way toward the hall, Ginny stopped them; she did not hesitate but flung her arms around George. His shoulders tensed in surprise but he made no move to stop her.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry for misjudging you –"

"Gin, what're you talking about?" Fred asked incredulously, but in the next instant she had hugged him, too, and then stepped back, her eyes brimming with tears. Charlie was grinning in an annoyingly knowing sort of way.

"I wouldn't never guessed – this," she whispered at last, looking between them. "I – I'm sorry. I think I understand now, why you were so distant before."

"Quite all right," said George, tilting his head with a slightly bemused smile. "And we the same, for lying to you. But you know, I'm still your same loveable brother, right?"

"Yes ... I know that, now." Ginny smiled at them before moving off. Fred glanced at his twin, mystified, who only shrugged.

The journey to St Mungo's passed as tumultuous as before aboard the Knight Bus. The trip was no better the second time, and George spent the ride clinging to Fred's arm in terror. When they stumbled at last into the white and chemically clean waiting room, the twins sank into chairs near the door while Mrs Weasley and Charlie went to check in.

"You shouldn't have come," Fred accused at once.

"_You_ shouldn't have," George countered, his gaze fixed on his hands trembling in his lap. He was still pale from the ride over. "What ... what d'you think you're doing, Gred?"

"Protecting you," Fred said fiercely, ensuring to keep his voice low, a wary eye out for Mrs Weasley's return. He leaned over and clenched a hand over George's; his skin was cold and clammy. "I'll get this over with, and we can go on our merry way."

George shook his head. "You shouldn't have," he repeated wearily. "It's just a check-up, Gred. There's nothing else they can do to me. If this is what it takes to convince Mum, then so be it."

Fred stared at him incredulously; how could his twin go along with this plan with such steeled acceptance, when last night he had been just as furious as Fred? It made no sense, but he knew well enough when the topic was closed. With a sigh he rustled in his pockets and retrieved the slightly squished toast.

"Here ... have something to eat. Not a word to Mum, all right? Charlie and I've got this settled."

George said nothing, but quietly accepted the toast. When Mrs Weasley returned with Charlie, her previous briskness had faded somewhat, and the hand she laid on his arm was trembling. "The healer will see you now, George. Come on now ... this way..."

Fred allowed her to gently tug him down the hall. Twisting his head, he caught sight of Charlie taking his abandoned seat; beside him George had not even looked up to acknowledge his disappearance. Fred turned back around, his expression steeled with determination. George wasn't in his right mind, that was it ... all this would be over soon and they could go home again, undisturbed for the rest of the holidays...

Mrs Weasley stopped short outside a white door like all the others, adorned with a plaque: the name read, _Healer Anthony Murray_. At that moment the door opened and a young man in white robes with a kind, rounded face appeared. "Ah, good morning. You must be –" he consulted a clipboard at hand "– George Weasley?"

Fred regarded him with a flat stare. Undeterred, the healer offered his hand to Mrs Weasley. "I'm Healer Murray. I received your owl about the situation. Do come in." He stepped inside the room; Mrs Weasley, with a hand on his shoulder, gently guided Fred inside after him.

The small office held only a cupboard of supplies off to one side, across the room a low bed. There was a lone chair. Mrs Weasley helped him up onto the bed, thin paper crackling beneath him. In the small space Fred was suddenly edgy: he hated hospitals perhaps even more than his brother, and drawing a deep breath set his focus on a painting across from him on the wall. It appeared to be a mosaic of different grimacing colourful cats. He continued to stare at it nonetheless.

The healer asked him a few seemingly pointless questions as he poked around experimentally at him, apparently to verify his fitness. ("Are you still at school?" "Hogwarts, isn't it?" "Any past problems with your eyesight at all?") Fred answered in monosyllables, still staring at the portrait. One of the cats yawned widely while others in garish pinks and purples pattered about lazily. Somehow the picture reminded him of Umbridge's office, with its wall of plates adorned with kittens, and his responses became all the more guarded.

Eventually Fred noted the healer was pulling on translucent gloves. "Now, then, I've taken a look at your medical records – courtesy of Madam Pomfrey – and there is no mention of your blindness ... is this a recent development?"

Fred nodded. The healer's gaze implored him; behind him, his mother was in the chair across the room, her eyes overlarge and her trembling hands clasped in her lap. With a sigh, he surrendered, "It was an accident. Back in November. I got hit ... here." He reached up and massaged the base of his neck, where all too often he had caught George rubbing at the old scar as if it burned him on its own. Healer Murray nodded.

"Ah, yes – a Quidditch accident. But you were treated for it, weren't you." Behind him Mrs Weasley drew a sharp gasp – Fred winced internally. George had forgotten to mention to her how exactly he had gone blind ... He wondered now if Mrs Weasley would withhold them both from the team, too. Unconsciously his fists clenched in his lap at the thought.

"Was this an immediate occurrence, or was it a gradual decline?" the healer went on. Fred only shrugged; he saw the question unasked in his expression, _Why didn't you tell the healers?_ Remembering how terrified George had been to even confide in his twin, Fred knew he couldn't answer for that.

"I dunno ... I was out for a long time afterward," he settled for vaguely. Healer Murray did not divulge any displeasure at his purposeful evasions, but after scrawling a last note laid aside his clipboard.

"If I may see?" he offered, but it was more for pleasantry's sake than an actual question. Grudgingly Fred turned toward the opposite wall, feeling icy fingers against the back of his neck, lifting the fringe of his hair. He did not much like exposing his back to the healer, but stonily regarded the wall.

Healer Murray made a faint noise in his throat. "How interesting – Madam Pomfrey indicated that there was scarring here..."

"I heal fast," Fred lied deftly, though his heart was beginning to pound. Behind him, Mrs Weasley got to her feet and moved to stand next to him.

"Look, there is not even a mark..."

Mrs Weasley turned his head in her hands to face him; Fred kept his gaze steady and unfazed even as her eyes narrowed and, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew their ploy was discovered.

"That would be because this is not George." Mrs Weasley's voice quavered. The look she was now giving him was rightly terrifying. Mrs Weasley fingered his unblemished cheek, where George still had the faint mark of a cut. "Frederic Gideon Weasley, I do not know _what _you were thinking but this is no time for your games! Now we are going out into that lobby and getting your brother – and you will _stay there _this time." She clasped a firm hand about his elbow, hoisting him to his feet. This time, Fred knew her hold was less for guidance and more to keep him from running off as he pleased. "Mr Murray, I am terribly sorry to have wasted your time like this."

The bemused healer only nodded as she dragged him out of the office.

Silence reigned as Mrs Weasley marched Fred down the hall to the waiting room. Somehow this was worse than a telling off – there were sharp words on his tongue, a retort for every one of her previous excuses – but she said nothing, making his efforts fizzle uselessly away. By her flushed cheeks Mrs Weasley was barely refraining from an explosive retribution. His heart sinking, Fred knew he was in for it when they returned home.

Charlie was on his feet when they reached the two by the door; he looked between them anxiously, but catching the fury in Mrs Weasley's expression, he hastily backed down. "George," he said quietly, "you should go with Mum now."

George's face was carefully blank as he stood up; Fred regarded him helplessly. "I'm sorry."

George didn't answer, but followed complacently with Mrs Weasley holding fast to his elbow. The two disappeared out of sight down the hall and Fred, defeated, sank into a chair to wait.

**·:·**

Fred closed the bedroom door behind them, blocking out for now the shrieking of the portraits below. He let out a long breath he hardly realized he had been holding, at last releasing his grip on his brother's wrist.

George had not spoken even when he and Mrs Weasley returned from the healer's office, her eyes brimming with tears as she hugged him fiercely as though by that alone she could will back his sight. Now he stumbled away from Fred, his footsteps uneven, and sank down on the edge of the bed; woozily he pressed his hands over his face.

Fred, uncaring for once that it was his own bed, sat down beside him. Before he could speak, George evidently sensed the uncertain stare boring into his head.

"'m okay ... gave me some pain-relieving potion, 'm just a bit out of it..."

Fred's lips moved at a frown. "But you're not..."

"'s for the headaches." George rubbed at his temples and dropped his hands at last, dangling them limply between his knees. "Mum picked up the prescription with Dad's stuff."

Fred was still staring at him, the look becoming accusing. "You never told me about any headaches."

"Yeah, well ... you had enough to worry about," George muttered ruefully. "It doesn't hurt that much, Fred, drop it."

Fred couldn't, but held his tongue. He had no desire to stir up old animosity and instead restlessly stood up, pacing across the room. "So was the whole appointment as useful as you thought it'd be?"

George tilted his head at his words, but did not respond immediately to his sardonic jab. "It was informative, I guess," he allowed. "And Mum understands now, I guess. You see, Fred, it's not my eyes themselves that're the problem ... according to the healer they're completely healthy," he shrugged, "but when I got hit, it's the visual cortex that got damaged ... that's why they can't just fix it..." He touched the base of his skull, unconsciously.

"But you knew that already," Fred objected. "...Didn't you?" He glanced at his brother, uncertainty and fear in his plea. George did not raise his head.

"The healer ... he suggested I go in for some more tests. He's gonna arrange them with Madam Pomfrey, because so long as it's done through the school ... well, Dumbledore'll pay for it ..."

"But why?" Fred came back to perch beside him, shifting restlessly. "You're fine, aren't you, Forge?"

George didn't answer him immediately, picking at the frayed bedspread. "Well, he was worried ... said there could be further damage in my brain, they've got to check it out, at least. I mean, we can't really protest against that..."

George stopped short suddenly as Fred shuffled over to him and hugged him, fiercely, pressing George's head against his chest. He couldn't disguise the fact that his shoulders were shaking; George did not protest but wrapped his arms around him, as though silently aware that they both needed this reassurance now.

"It's all right, Fred," he mumbled into his shirt. "Just some more appointments ... at least we'll know I'm okay, right?"

"Yeah..." Fred couldn't put into words how oddly terrified he had been, waiting out the time until George and their mother emerged from that white corridor. Nor could he express the shame that he all along had tried so hard to balk from what George knew had to be done. Somehow in these past few days George had shed his need of a shield from the world, and now Fred searched for a new role in the shifting paradigm – what it was exactly he had no idea yet, fumbling in his course toward it.

All he knew was that George needed him; and God, he was not letting go of him, ever again.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Another Disclaimer: Personally, I have no experience in the medical domain, so please excuse any errors above. Also, thanks to Queen Farli, who earlier pointed out to me that George's irises shouldn't have changed color; that is fixed now. :)

Please review!


	21. Don't

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 - **Edits.

* * *

**Chapter 21 – Don't**

_"Don't let 'em get where they're going to_

_You know they're only what they think of you_

_You heard of this emotional trickery_

_And you felt like you were learning the ropes_

_But where you're going now, you don't know."_

_-Problem Girl, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

The days of winter vacation slipped fluidly away as quickly as water through George's cupped hands. Before he or Fred knew it, the day of their return to Hogwarts had dawned; thus Mrs Weasley found them asleep that early morning as she bustled into their third floor room.

"Still in bed? Come now, get up, we're leaving in an hour," she said briskly. Somewhere across the room Fred groaned; George blinked slowly, lying with his face buried in his pillow, and considered mustering the force to sit up.

"I have breakfast on already – I expect you downstairs in a few minutes," Mrs Weasley went on, heading back for the door. Her footsteps staggered and she burst out suddenly, "And this laundry is supposed to be in your trunks – _not_ on the floor – and I _had_ folded it for you and everything..."

"Oh, yeah, that," said Fred, with an air of just remembering. The bed sheets rustled as he sat up. "Yeah, we'll get around to that." Mrs Weasley muttered a few moments longer before the door clicked shut behind her.

George closed his eyes, listening to the shuffle of motion as Fred collected the clothes off the floor and stuffed them none too gently in his trunk. At last he drew a long breath and swung himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed; it made his head spin a moment and he blinked hard, waiting for the momentary feeling of illness to pass.

Fred came to sit next to him on the bed. "Here," he said, plopping a bundle of clothes in his twin's arms. "Sorry if they're a bit rumpled." George smirked at that, fingering the collar of the shirt.

After a moment Fred moved off again, restlessly shuffling about the room so that George tilted his head a bit curiously after him. "Looking for something?"

"Yeah ... my wand."

"Didn't you pack it already?"

"Well ... I thought I did, but..." Fred resumed muttering to himself as he pawed through his trunk. George decided he wasn't obligated to help him and instead ran his fingers along the bedside vanity, quickly finding the vial of potion Mrs Weasley had left him last night. He grimaced; he didn't particularly like taking the medication, but as long as he was under his mother's watchful eye he didn't have a choice in the matter.

He coughed on the bitter liquid and slammed the empty vial back down, rubbing his fist over his jaw. After over two weeks of taking it, the potion still hadn't improved in taste. Something rattled on the table with the motion, he noted distantly, and fumbled along the surface until his fingers closed around a thin shaft of wood.

"Oi, Fred, I found –"

But as he held up the wand to show his brother, there was a sharp squawk and the object in his fist transformed into the rubbery neck of a chicken. George blinked in surprise, clutching the rubber chicken; then with a faint smirk he chucked it in Fred's direction.

"Not nice to bait me like that, you know."

"Ah, that's where that trick wand went," Fred said airily. "I was looking for that." George heard the squeak of the chicken as he threw it in his trunk as well; Fred grunted faintly and the trunk clicked shut.

"Fred..." George said suddenly, the chicken having reminded him. "...the joke shop, are we still ... are we still working on it?" It had been over two months, now, since either of them had breached the topic. The plans for their latest developments before November, George knew, were still sitting crumpled somewhere at the bottom of his trunk.

The bed compressed beside him as Fred sank down. "I ... I don't know," he said at last. "Are we?"

"Well," George pondered, "we _could_ always try for a stuffy Ministry job like Mum wanted."

"That's not what I meant, you git," Fred muttered ruefully, poking him in the side. George edged away from him, more wary this time; however, he only raised an eyebrow at his brother, who went on hesitantly, "I mean, d'you still want to, now that – well, now you're –"

"Blind?" George supplied flatly. Beside him, Fred shifted a bit uncomfortably, and he cracked a wry grin. "C'mon, Fred, you can say it now. It's not like it's taboo."

Fred changed the topic. "It's not that I don't want to do it again. It's just, well – _how_? You're the one who usually writes all our stuff down, and reads up on stuff –"

"D'you have any faith in me or not?" George grinned weakly. "So what if my writing's illegible. I can still read and I've got a good memory. I'll just get someone to record stuff for me, for you and anyone else to read. And I know what you're thinking, that it'd be dangerous for me to experiment on my own –"

"– which it is –"

"– which is why that's your job now," George said patiently. "I'll just supervise you, then. Any other stupid questions?" Nevertheless, he was smiling slightly at his brother, and Fred knew by it that he was forgiven his uncertainty. His shoulders straightened slightly: it was a simple acceptance, but it gave him new hope. They could still do this ... they could still accomplish their dream together, even if one of them would never truly see it. George's courage alone restored his hope that, up ahead, the peak of their climb finally came into view.

"We should get downstairs," Fred said at last, leaping to his feet. "Mum's gonna be horrid if we don't hurry up."

**·:·**

Platform Nine and Three Quarters was blurred with steam from the proud scarlet engine standing above them all. Shouts and exchanged goodbyes crisscrossed the thick crowd; George clung tightly to his brother's arm as though afraid to be swept away by the current. Jostled from all sides, Fred struggled toward where Mrs Weasley was handing out her usual paper bag lunches to the teens and tearful hugs. Slightly further back in the crowd, the Order guard who had accompanied them now stood by, a wary eye out on the crowd.

Charlie made his way over to the twins. "Have a good rest of the year, you two," he grinned. "Don't get into too much trouble, now."

"We'll try not to get caught," Fred promised, grinning back. Beside him George hesitated, then shuffled forward, still clutching to Fred's arm. Charlie understood his uncertain motion and, stepping forward, hugged him swiftly.

"Don't worry about what anyone else thinks, all right?" Charlie murmured to him. "You and Fred do what you want." He released him, and then, stepping forward, embraced Fred as well. In his surprise, Fred didn't protest.

"Thanks, Char ... for everything," he whispered, not knowing if Charlie heard him over the clatter of noise around them.

When they broke apart, Mrs Weasley handed Fred two bagged lunches and hugged him as well. "You take care, both of you," she said, now moving to hug George as well. She held on to him a moment longer, blinking hard against tears. Behind them, the train whistled a warning; the crowd of remaining students surged toward the Hogwarts Express.

"Mum –" Fred said, catching George's arm. Reluctantly she released him.

"I've sent an owl to Madam Pomfrey, but if you need anything else you just get someone to write to me," she instructed, squeezing his shoulder. "Oh, Georgie ... good luck!"

Fred at last managed to drag his twin away and dragged him stumbling in his wake toward the train now humming to life; they had hardly reached their compartment when the train lurched into motion beneath them, and George stumbled into his brother's back.

"Sorry –"

Fred caught to the door of the compartment and slid it forcefully open; the twins staggered inside and sank gratefully onto seats across from one another. George leaned up against the cold windowsill, his temple pressed to the glass, his eyes closed; they could hear the rumble of the Express picking up speed, pulling away from the last of the well-wishing crowd.

When the scenery had turned to rolling snowy plains outside Fred diverted his attention from the window. He noticed George rubbing slightly at his temples – a tendency he had noted of late – and wondered if his head was hurting him again. He didn't dare ask and instead began idly shuffling the pack of Exploding Snap that he had left in his pocket.

It wasn't long before Lee Jordan arrived, accusing them of not sitting with him and the Gryffindor seventh year girls further along the train; his mock-fury did not last long, as the twins swiftly recounted what had happened during their holiday (leaving out any pertinent information about the Order) and Lee joined Fred's vehement protest against Mrs Weasley's decision to alert their teachers. George himself seemed less than interested in the topic, and soon they were bantering about new product ideas for the shop and Lee suggested they give their signature in-progress fireworks a new twist, citing a new spell he'd learned to spell words in the air.

In no time at all, it seemed, the Hogwarts Express dragged itself into Hogsmede Station in a last wispy puff of steam. The twins and Lee hastened to pull on their school robes before joining the surge of students down onto the platform. Even knowing very well how much George hated crowds, all three of them were starved and anxious to get to the feast; thus with one hand clamped on George's sleeve Fred guided him through the throng, ahead of him Lee maybe harking their seventh year seniority a little to get themselves a carriage more quickly.

Lee gestured to Fred, indicating the next carriage lurching around the bend, coming to a creaking stop in front of the crowd; Fred nodded and followed after him with a tug on George's sleeve. But as they came up alongside the carriage, George stopped suddenly in his tracks, his head tilted to the side.

"C'mon." Lee offered his arm from atop the swaying carriage; Fred nudged his twin toward him, ensuring he boarded safely before clambering aboard himself. They sat together, huddled against the cold, as the carriage lurched forward. The wheels creaked and groaned as they carried forward into the black forest.

George stared straight ahead, a steely sort of focus in his gaze. It was a bit unnerving. Fred tugged his collar higher about his neck, shifting next to him.

"What're you -?"

George hissed, silencing him. "Listen."

Fred and Lee exchanged bewildered glances; Lee shrugged. Fred glanced around, his breath fogging the January air; they were alone, gnarled branches stretching to either side of the carriage's steady path. In the distance up ahead and behind, other carriages processed in similar fashion.

"I don't hear anything," Lee broke the vigil at last.

"There's something there. Something pulling the carriage."

Lee's eyebrows shot up and he looked over his shoulder at the empty space in front of the carriage. He looked back at George. "Er ... it's pulling itself, as always, mate." By his tone, he, too, was a bit unnerved. The back of Fred's neck prickled.

"Maybe you just can't see them," George countered. "There's something there, I'd bet anything on it."

Fred swallowed hard. It was enough that the school had ample reason to scorn him already; he didn't need a reputation as a madman, too. Hesitantly he laid a hand on George's cold wrist. "You're hearing things. There's nothing there, George, I promise ... unless there's something that even I can't see." His lips twisted wryly at that, hoping to divert George's mind from his sudden insistence.

George made a faint sound that was neither agreement nor protest, and remained silent for the remainder of the journey, his eyes set on the empty space ahead of the carriage as if he was seeing for the first time.

Fred couldn't shake his feeling of unease, either, as they left the carriages behind and joined the queue filing into the Great Hall. In the welcome warmth he shook back his hood and again found George's hand, keeping him close in the shuffle of the crowd. As they reached the grand oak doors, however, a voice sought them out.

"Mr Weasley, there you are – a word, if you don't mind." It was Madam Pomfrey, looking out of place in the sea of black cloaks in her white matron's robe; she gestured to the twins, who bid Lee to go on and instead followed her up the marble staircase.

When they had left the low murmuring of the crowd behind, the Hogwarts matron turned to them. She smiled kindly at George, who had his gaze carefully downcast and clutched to his brother's arm. "I have been informed of your situation. You may come by any time you need to see me. Your first appointment is scheduled for next Monday at seven o'clock in the evening."

"Right," George said quietly. "Thank you."

She nodded, and Fred led George back toward the Great Hall. Now the last of the students were filtering in, and Lee waved to them from the Gryffindor table – he was seated with Angelina, Alicia, and Katie.

"Hey, all," said Fred brightly, sitting down. George followed him a moment later and Fred realized, too late, that this would be the first time in long months that they would rejoin the Gryffindor table. If the same thought was running through George's mind, his expression did not give it away as he merely prodded Fred's side, silently asking him for assistance.

Without a word Fred grabbed the nearest platter of potatoes and started piling them on his and George's plates; his twin only nodded in faint thanks, seeming to have drawn into his shell, his gaze fixated on the table in front of him and hunched slightly in his seat, as though if he made himself small enough he could evade the attention of the rest of the Hall.

"So, you've finally decided to join us, have you?" asked Angelina, cocking an eyebrow. "Good – our next match is coming up and you'll need to maintain a balanced diet in preparation ..."

"Angie ... drop it, okay?" Fred mumbled. Beside him George was poking at his food without appetite. Angelina shot him a bit of an odd, miffed look, but mercifully abandoned her fervour on Quidditch.

"Are you feeling all right, George?" Alicia piped up, eyeing her friend with concern. Evidently, Fred wasn't the only one to pick up his twin's uneasy silence. George stiffened slightly, but when he answered, it was more tired than obstinate.

"I'll survive ... think I picked something up over the holiday, 's all."

The girls nodded sympathetically and let the topic go; as they amiably discussed their own Christmas experiences (Katie, as a Muggleborn, had spent the time skiing with her parents, and the others were naturally curious about the sport), however, Fred watched his twin from the corner of his eye. He couldn't help but wonder why he had chosen to lie, when it would be so easy now to tell the truth, before they found out from ... other sources.

He shook off that foreboding, casting around the warm and chattering Hall. No ... as of yet, their secret was still safe; nevertheless, his eyes lingered on the whispering Slytherin table beside them, and he couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until Mrs Weasley's revelation to the teachers spread through the school ...

And Fred found himself wondering, not for the first time, what George would do when that time came.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Please review!


	22. Whisper

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Edits.

* * *

**Chapter 22 - Whisper**

_"Talking to myself in public_

_Dodging glances on the train_

_And I know, I know they've all been talking about me_

_I can hear them whisper, and it makes me think_

_There must be something wrong with me_

_Out of all the hours thinking_

_Somehow I've lost my mind."_

_-Unwell, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

The first day of term, the familiar _breep-breep-breep_ of Lee's Muggle alarm clock woke Fred at seven AM sharp – with a faint groan he rolled over, squinting into the shadows to his right where his friend was fumbling for the noisy device.

When it clicked off to welcome silence, Fred muttered, disgruntled, "Finally remembered to set it for once, did you?"

"Yeah," Lee whispered back, sitting up and stretching, "my parents've promised to murder me if they get another owl about my attendance."

Fred only snorted at that, reckoning it was an extremely good thing Mrs Weasley – well used to the twins' tendencies – didn't have a similar policy. Now unfortunately wide awake, he struggled a way free from his tangled blankets and wandered over to George's bed. His brother was awake as well, perched on the edge of his bed and grimacing, a hand pressed to his forehead.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Fred teased. He stooped at the foot of his bed, searching out fresh robes from George's trunk. By now it was an unasked habit as he chucked the clothes at his brother. George only grimaced further at him, picking his jumper off his head.

"Feeling sadistic this morning, are you?"

"Yeah, well," Fred shrugged, "_someone_ woke me up too early. I have to get revenge somehow."

George didn't respond to that, silently pulling on his school robes. In a few short minutes they had appropriately readied themselves for another term at school, and the twins plus Lee headed downstairs for breakfast.

George slowed as they reached the clamour of the Great Hall; Fred hesitated, retracing his steps to clasp his wrist. "C'mon," he whispered. "You know there's not as many people at breakfast."

"You did great yesterday, anyway," Lee chipped in. George did not look as if he was in agreement, but nodded slowly; he understood just as well that the longer he avoided people, the greater suspicion he'd stir up. Obediently, he trailed in Fred's shadow into the Great Hall. Fred felt him flinch slightly against him as they passed by the Slytherin table already lined with whispering students, but he had already spotted Angelina, Alicia, and Katie seated at the end of the Gryffindor table near Harry, Ron, and Hermione. However, Fred couldn't miss how the Slytherins fell silent then, their eyes on the backs of their heads as they moved stiffly to join the Gryffindors.

"Morning," greeted Alicia as they approached. Fred forced himself to smile and nod to the others, though his insides had twisted into knots at the Slytherins' reaction. _Damnit, Snape must've told them,_ he thought at once._ But so soon..._

He had hardly sat down next to an edgy George when three figures broke free of the crowd, purposefully brushing close by their seats. A loud drawl drifted over them: "I told you, Hogwarts is going downhill. They've let in Muggle-lovers and Mudblood for years ... and now look at this."

Fred stiffened, but he did not look around at Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin fifth-year's eyes gleamed with malice as his usual bookends, Crabbe and Goyle, sniggered appreciatively.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" growled Ron from beside them. His hands had coiled into fists and he was glaring openly at the Slytherins.

"I was just telling them how far Hogwarts's standards have fallen," Malfoy sniffed, and his eyes darted toward the twins. Fred growled faintly, envisioning all too well the November day they had stood in green on the Quidditch pitch, openly laughing as Madam Hooch carried George's limp form off to the hospital wing...

"Bastards," he hissed. Malfoy turned on him, his sneer broadening.

"What, did I hit a nerve?"

"You ... this is all your fault." Fred's fingers twitched. It had been bloody long months of coping with the mess the pale Slytherin rat had caused ... He didn't need a wand; he was going to make him pay for what George had suffered at their hands –

"Really," Malfoy shrugged, "I was only cleaning up the amount of scum around here..." Blind with rage, Fred leaped to his feet; next to him Ron had done the same, and somewhere behind them Hermione gave a squeak.

"No, don't –"

"Do us a favour," Ron snarled, his face blazing as red as his hair, "and clean_ yourself _out of here, you bloody git." Harry and Hermione had also stood up, clinging to his robes in an effort to keep him from pouncing on Malfoy outright. Crabbe and Goyle, sensing their cue, stepped forward, cracking their knuckles menacingly. Fred surged forward when a hand caught his sleeve.

"Don't," George said quietly. He did not look at the Slytherins or at Fred, panting with adrenaline. "You're just doing what they want you to."

"Yeah, better watch yourself, Weasel," Malfoy called. "Wouldn't want us to _accidentally_ blind another one of your brothers, now."

George's grip on his twin slackened; his eyes had gone wide as though someone had just slapped him across the face. Somewhere Katie gasped; "George, is that ... is that true?" whispered Alicia.

That was the last straw: with a snarl Fred tore away from his twin, lunging at Malfoy. Before he could pummel him with his readied fists, Crabbe and Goyle had closed in. The next instant one of them had gotten an arm around his chest; a fist connected with his gut and Fred, gasping, nearly bent double with the sudden pain. He thrashed out, wildly, not caring that Goyle staggered back, clutching a bloody nose, or that Malfoy had drawn his wand, taking a step back from the incensed Gryffindor. Behind him Ron was struggling and swearing; George had gotten to his feet, regarding the battle with wide-eyed concern.

"Fred? ...Fred!"

Distantly Fred knew he should stay with his twin; but rage bottled up for long months was now out in the open and he smacked Crabbe, hard, in the jaw as the bigger Slytherin tried to put him in a headlock.

"Fred, stop it!" Hermione cried, digging in her heels as she clung to Ron's sleeve. "Honestly -!"

But just then she tapered off with a sharp gasp; Ron went still, his face blazing; Fred, panting and tasting blood in his mouth, turned slowly around. As he did the color drained from his face.

Professor Umbridge stood with her arms folded, a cold smug smile in place; her tiny eyes bored into Fred's own. "_Hem hem_ ... what is the meaning of this?"

Malfoy's eyes alit in a smirk. "Professor, he started it, he attacked me ... like some sort of savage," he scoffed. Now that they had stopped feuding, George ventured cautiously forward and clasped Fred's sleeve.

"Fred...?"

"This is inappropriate behaviour for a school environment," Professor Umbridge declared. "Twenty five points from Gryffindor, I think, for lack of self control."

Ron made a furious noise in his throat. "Sodding git provoked us!"

"Twenty more," Professor Umbridge said coolly, her eyes not having moved from where Fred stood, blood trailing from his lower lip, his chest heaving. "Now, a week's worth of detentions should smarten up your behaviour ... that goes for the three of you Messrs Weasley."

Ron growled faintly; Fred glared at Umbridge, yet he couldn't stop the furious retort that came to his tongue. "Wha - but George didn't do anything, he tried to stop -"

"Nevertheless, he would have surely joined in this animal behaviour, if he were _able_." There was a sinister sort of twitch to her lips and Fred felt the last of his resolve snap.

"Leave my brother -" A hand tensed on his arm; George restrained him, barely, from doing something that surely would have warranted his expulsion. Fred settled for a furious snarl as Professor Umbridge turned away.

"Back to your seats, all of you. I wouldn't want any more unfortunate occurrences this morning." She gave another fluttery cough and drifted off.

The Slytherins, trailing after her, were smirking broadly; Fred's vision swam with red.

"George ... you can't let her ... you heard her, like you're ... like you're..." Fred was too furious to speak straight; George tugged him back toward the Gryffindor table without a word.

"Don't," he mumbled at last. "Don't risk it for me."

When they had somewhat settled from the encounter - Fred's gaze still stormy - Alicia hesitantly ventured, "Was it true? What - what Malfoy said?"

Fred stiffened but didn't answer; George still had a steady grip on his arm as though afraid he'd lash out at anyone now. Nevertheless he straightened, his chin lifted and his steady stare almost meeting her eye.

"Yeah. It's true ... I am blind, thanks to them."

"Stupid bastards," Fred muttered under his breath. George squeezed his arm again in warning.

"Oh," Alicia mumbled, and she bit her lip. Angelina looked between the twins.

"Well ... that explains a lot." She frowned suddenly, "Why didn't you tell us? God - I'd have let you off practice if you'd said something -"

"That's exactly why I didn't," George said firmly. "I don't want your sympathy, all right? Besides ... Mum's banned me from playing again, anyway." He drew a breath to steel himself, "Fred and I have it worked out. No one guessed it before, so you see ... we have it all under control. Please, don't act like I'm any different."

Despite his words, all three Chasers were regarding him with wide-eyed concern. No one seemed to know what to say to that.

"So ... since November then?" Katie said quietly, unusually pale. George nodded. "How? I mean - well - how did you keep it a secret so long if you can't - if you can't even see anything?" she concluded awkwardly.

George considered. "First ... I can sort of see dark and light, and a bit of movement sometimes. And second ... I'm not even sure how we managed this long." He laughed, dryly, at that, before sobering again. "I suppose I just picked up a few helpful habits along the way, and Fred and I have a lot of leeway when it comes to what we do around here, and -"

" - and he always has me," Fred chipped in. George glanced in his direction, a bit wonderingly, but Fred had let his anger go for now. He grinned slightly, "I would say I'm the reason George hasn't walked off a cliff or something yet."

"Yeah, he's such a good guide dog," George said dryly.

"...Hey," Fred pretended to glare at him. "I'm much more handsome than a dog. Plus I don't have fleas."

George tilted his head slightly, grinning. "Ah, all right then. My mistake."

"But then how do they know?" Alicia asked, glancing over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy seemed to be regaling his fellows with the incident, and a roar of laughter swept the green and silver table. Fred twitched but, with George still restraining him, forced himself to let it go.

George went on cheerfully, either unaware or uncaring of the Slytherins. "It's only over the holidays Mum found out ... she owled the teachers, Snape must've told the Slytherins or something. I'm sorry you had to find out like this. It'll be all over the school soon enough," he added with a touch of bitterness.

"Well, we won't tell anyone," Angelina said fiercely. "You can count on us for that ... and if they try spreading any worse rumors, well ... we can always remind them we beat them soundly, even one man down." Alicia and Katie nodded solemnly to her proclamation.

"Thanks," George said quietly. "You don't know how much that would mean to me."

**·:·**

The first morning of Monday classes passed as smoothly as could be expected; in Herbology, Professor Sprout called George aside at the beginning of class and conferred with him for several minutes. Fred and Lee, pruning a Blistering Bush nearby, tried their best to listen in to no avail; later enquiries only earned a faint headshake from his brother and muttered, "Wanted to know if I needed accommodations ... never mind."

He kept his voice low, but Fred, casting about the steamy greenhouse, noted the other Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs safely enrapt in their own work. Even if they did know the truth, well, he couldn't really expect the Hufflepuffs to do anything but mind their own business. Thus feeling slightly more confident, he guided George through the task of collecting discarded leaves covered in protruding boils from the base of the bush. They silently resumed their task, Fred only noticing that Professor Sprout came to check on their bush more often than anyone else's.

Before lunch, they had Defence Against the Dark Arts; Fred remembered all too well what had transpired that morning, and settled for glaring at their professor as soon as he had found his seat. Professor Umbridge had long ago decided to separate the twins and now they were at complete opposite ends of the classroom; it was only by chance that Lee was still sitting beside George at the front of the room.

By Umbridge's smug smile as she started the lesson, Fred's stomach clenched with the thought that she might bring up George's predicament to the class; he breathed a slight sigh of relief when she only assigned their usual reading and swept about the classroom to survey their progress. In the front row Fred saw George pull out _Defensive Magical Theory_ and tap it discreetly with his wand. When Professor Umbridge neared his desk, she found him as studiously as anyone else bent over his Braille copy of the textbook; suddenly looking as if she had swallowed a lemon, she slunk off again. Fred realized she had intended to test him as such and smirked to himself, once more silently thanking Hermione for her genius as Umbridge missed her opportunity to publicly goad the twins.

Lunch was spent in the welcome familiarity of the kitchens; Fred had given in on that regard, as their carefully built secret was crumbling anyway, and George had clearly demonstrated that he really didn't give a damn what anyone thought anymore. Without the goading whispers of the Slytherins, it was a much more enjoyable meal, and it was only when the bell for afternoon classes rang out that Fred remembered they had Care of Magical Creatures next, and his heart sank.

They had class with the Slytherin seventh years.

He didn't dare broach the topic with George as the two of them plus Lee trudged down the snowy lawn to the edge of the forest. The trees of the Forbidden Forest were frosted over with white, looking almost majestic; a plume of smoke rose from above Hagrid's hut and a small cluster of black-robed students already hovered next to the adjacent paddock. Fred tugged his collar higher as he neared, his eyes instinctively seeking out whatever bizarre creature they'd be handling today; however, as far as he could tell, the paddock was empty.

As the last straggling Slytherins joined the group, Hagrid's bulky form emerged from the forest. The half-giant was beaming despite a limp in his lumbering strides, and some of the girls squeaked at the purpled bruises polka-dotting his face. "Welcome back," he boomed, swinging a lantern in his fist and nearly decapitating a few Slytherins in the process. "Got a real treat for yeh today! We'll have to go into the forest to see 'em, now, a bit shy of humans..."

Fred raised an eyebrow as Hagrid led the class on a hesitant trek between the trees. Whatever it was ... he certainly hoped it wasn't what had given Hagrid those injuries. He tugged slightly on George's sleeve to get him to keep up at his side, unwilling to let him go too far on his own in the forest.

They crunched through the undergrowth for a good while, ducking scraping branches and scrambling to keep up with Hagrid's pace. Somehow, through the lagging of their unwilling classmates, Fred, George, and Lee found themselves at the head of the pack. When Hagrid stopped short at the edge of a clearing, Lee had to stop himself from colliding with his back.

"There they are!" Hagrid announced in a whisper, beckoning for the class to spread out around him. "Beautiful, ain't they?"

Fred, shifting sideways out of the half-giant's shadow, scanned the clearing; his eyes narrowed. There was nothing there; the trees creaked and groaned in a faint breeze, as he watched a clump of snow falling with a faint thump from the high branches. He glanced back at the class shuffling around him, perceiving the same confusion in their wide eyes.

"What, can't yeh see 'em?" Hagrid's smile faltered slightly at their lack of reaction. "I thought ... I thought one or two of yeh might, three in the fifth year class could... Anyway, these here are Thestrals," he announced a bit louder, for some of the Slytherins had started snickering. "Er – does anyone here know why only some can see 'em?"

The class exchanged wary glances again. Fred was beginning to wonder about Hagrid's sanity, himself; then George shifted beside him and, to his utter surprise, raised a tentative hand.

"Ah – yes – Weasley?" Hagrid perked slightly.

"Only those've seen death can see Thestrals," George proclaimed quietly. Fred and Lee weren't the only ones staring at him, wide-eyed – no one could remember the twins ever volunteering information in class. But George hadn't finished; he tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing in consideration; then he stated, "There's three of them in front of us, I think."

"Excellent!" beamed Hagrid over the murmur rippling through the crowd. "I'd say – twenty points to Gryffindor. Now then, if yeh'll follow me, yeh can come feed them, if yeh'd like."

"How did you -?" Alicia whispered at his shoulder. "You can't – you can't see _them_, can you?"

"Nah, 'course not," George grinned, "but they're not exactly being quiet, you know." As the rest of the class uncertainly streamed around them after Hagrid, George lifted a hand and pointed off to their left.

"One over there – grooming, I think. There's another a little more to the right, foraging." He was now pointing off between two pine trees. Alicia gasped softly.

"The snow – look there!" Fred followed her gaze; right where George had indicated the snowy clearing was churned with hoof prints. In fact, as he watched, a little of the snow seemed to move of its own accord, forming miniature mounds. He wouldn't have noticed it if George hadn't drawn his attention to it.

"Something's moving," Fred said, shifting a little closer to his twin. "What ... what _are_ they, George?"

George considered. "They look kind of like winged horses, I think," he elaborated. "But they're different ... their skin –" He stopped short then, tilting his head to the left.

"Hang on, one's coming toward us now."

Alicia squeaked faintly, clinging to his arm; Fred stared at the patch of snow in front of them, suddenly churned with hoof prints. He glanced sharply sideways, but George was smiling slightly, holding out a hand to the empty air.

"Hey, there ... See, she won't hurt you," he added to the other two. "Come and pet her, here. But move slowly so you don't scare her."

"Her?" Alicia asked nervously.

George grinned, "We know each other, a little. Here." He beckoned for her hand; Alicia hesitated before releasing her grip on his arm and complying. George still had one hand on the invisible beast as he guided Alicia's hand toward it. She gasped suddenly, experimentally curling her fingers over what seemed to be empty air.

"Oh ... she's so bony..."

"Yeah," George grinned. "Close your eyes, and try to imagine what she looks like by what you feel. But watch her wing – she's a bit sensitive there –"

Fred watched with all the caution of a hawk as the two stroked the invisible Thestral; Alicia trailed her hands along the beast's side, her eyes closed; she drew a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh ... wow ..." Reopening her eyes, she gazed wonderingly at George. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she is," he answered with a small smile. "Fred, c'mon, she won't bite –" George reached for his hand.

Fred tensed; for at that moment several Slytherins, sniggering amongst themselves, ventured near to the three of them. Over their shoulders, Hagrid was busy showing the rest of the class how to feed the Thestrals what appeared to be chunks of raw meat.

"Would you look at that," drawled the teen at their head, a beefy boy who was also captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. "I think we found ourselves Hagrid's replacement. A good thing too, since _his_ days are numbered," he sneered.

"Shut it, Montague," growled Fred. His hand twitched toward his wand.

"Not again, Fred," Alicia whispered urgently. George didn't say anything; his gaze was slightly downcast as he ran his fingers along the Thestral's neck.

"You'll fit right in that hut of his ... bet it's the biggest house you've ever _seen_, huh, Weasel – oh, wait, I forgot," Montague's sneer broadened, and Fred with a snarl started forward.

"You lay off him already!"

Alicia caught his sleeve, holding him back. "Fred, please -!"

"Lemme go – I'll murder him, I'll bloody murder him –"

Montague smirked and drew his wand. "Let's go then," he said quietly. "I'd like to see you try." His fellows shifted, raising their wands as well; Fred didn't care, his mind red in anger as he freed his wand as well; Alicia's grip loosened on him and he hardly noticed she, too, had her wand at hand.

"You don't fight fair," she hissed, eyeing their numbers; Montague smirked.

"Trust a Gryffindor to think that I'd care –" He gave a swift downward slash of his wand; red light flashed forward and Fred, a second too late, recognized his tactics: the hex was aimed not at the two of them, but –

"George, look out!" With a strangled yell Fred flung himself at his twin; George froze an instant before Fred's shoulder hit him full in the chest. The two toppled sideways and the spell hit empty air.

But in the next instant a high, unearthly scream pitched the earth beneath them; momentarily stunned Fred hit the ground and rolled, George with him, coming to a halt with his temple pressed against cold ground. He spat out a mouthful of slush, shaking his head. Somewhere above the Slytherins were dispersing and Alicia stepped backward, face blanched with terror.

The invisible beast thrashed and beat at the air next to them; Fred saw the snow inches away tramped by the dancing of invisible hooves, feeling the vibration of the air as it pulsed its wings. Something wet and warm hit his cheek – still stunned, he brushed it away with his fingertips and then stopped short. There was black blood on his fingers.

George struggled to his knees beside him, twisting his head in either direction as though trying to absorb the chaos of the scene all at once; Hagrid's footsteps boomed nearer overheard and the half-giant called out, hands raised, trying to quell the Thestral's terror.

"Down now, down girl, it's all right –"

The beast gave another unearthly shriek; then the pounding of hooves filled Fred's ears as the Thestral wheeled about and churned a path through the snow into the trees, a spatter of blood in its wake.

"Now, stay calm," Hagrid called out to the petrified class. "Stay where yeh are – I'll be right back –"

But Fred no longer paid any mind to the students clumping together and murmuring anxiously; George had just surged to his feet, his expression pale and an unknown fervour in his eyes. Before Fred or anyone else could stop him, he ran after the Thestral's tracks.

"Teyla!"

Fred cursed under his breath and staggered to his feet, charging after his twin into the thick of the Forbidden Forest.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Well, that was unexpected... Stupid Slytherins. Please review!


	23. Wake Up

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Edits as usual. I think by the end of this chapter you'll really see the only major change in the plot... Now you'll just have to read and see, won't you?

* * *

**Chapter 23 – Wake Up**

_"What you got, I don't need it,_

_I can't listen to all your reasons_

_Wake up, I don't feel it,_

_I can't listen to all your reasons."_

_-All Your Reasons, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

Fred plunged through the dense undergrowth, impatiently shoving aside the crackling branches that caught in his cloak. He trailed the churned hoof prints the desperate Thestral had left behind, every few meters spattered with dark blood; now the trail mingled with the stumbling footsteps of his twin.

Behind him Fred heard the heavy thumping of boots; Hagrid was coming after them. However he did not slow his pace, urgently searching out his brother's figure up ahead – damnit, George should know better than running off on his own like this – Fred stumbled over a tree root and cursed aloud.

"George? _George_!"

There was no answer; panting in the frosty air Fred surged forward again, dragged back by pinpricks of branches. At last he staggered down a slope, released from the thick foliage into a ravine; he stopped short, breathing hard.

Between the trees up ahead lay a meandering brook, its frozen surface broken by protruding stones; a shadowy figure crouched on its bank, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"George!" Fred's first instinct was to run toward him, but he forced himself to pause; George glanced up at him, his pale blue eyes wide and petrified.

"Teyla," he said again. "Teyla ... she's hurt ..."

"Teyla?" That was the Thestral's name, then, Fred guessed; he didn't have time to inquire as to how George knew that. Now he noticed his twin's hands outstretched, stroking the air; the beast was there beside him next to the brook, lying in the blood-patched snow. Cautiously Fred trudged nearer and crouched next to him.

"Hurt how?"

"I ... I dunno, she's bleeding." George's voice cracked. He was bloody terrified, for an animal's sake at that. Before Fred could reply, the bushes above them parted and Hagrid slid down the slope toward them.

"There we are, now – easy now, Teyla, it's just me." Hagrid came over on their other side. "Ah – good job calming her, Weasley."

"She's hurt," George repeated balefully.

"Yeah – her wing's bleeding, here. Doesn't look too bad – she's just spooked, mainly. Hold her head still, will yeh?" As he spoke Hagrid fumbled with a length of cloth from his pocket, and then reaching out began to bind the invisible wing. Still silent, George stroked the Thestral's head.

Fred looked on at the surreal scene, his breath fogging the air with each shaky rasp. He didn't know what to make of the two of them so calmly taking over something he couldn't even begin to understand...

"She didn't hurt yeh, now did she?" Hagrid said after a moment. George shook his head.

"Wha' happened back there?"

"The Slytherins," George conceded flatly. "They tried to attack us ... they must've hit her wing instead."

"Causing trouble as usual," Hagrid growled faintly. "I'll be keeping an eye on them, then. Come now, Teyla." He urged the Thestral to its feet; Fred stared at the makeshift bandages that seemed to be floating and shifting in midair. "I'll put her in the paddock fer now, keep watch on her wing."

"Will she be all right?" George asked quietly as Fred slipped an arm under his elbow, helping him back to his feet. Hagrid did not reply immediately, slipping a tether around Teyla's neck and readjusting it.

"Thestrals are a tough sort. She'll survive," Hagrid deemed. "Though ... not sure she'll be able to fly again like this."

George said nothing to that, but quietly trailed in Hagrid's footsteps back toward the clearing, Fred with a hand on his arm and Teyla trooping obediently in front of them.

**·:·**

Fred was sick of the sight of the garish pink office by the time he and George arrived Monday night, as they had for a week, at the door at five o'clock sharp. He grimaced, raising a scarred fist to knock.

"Come in," echoed Professor Umbridge's sickeningly falsely sweet tone. Fred grit his teeth and glanced sideways at his twin; George's gaze was set straight ahead, steeled for the task ahead. He drew a long breath and pushed the office door open.

Professor Umbridge daintily set down her teacup as the twins shuffled into the room; once more Fred nearly gagged on the perfumed atmosphere. "This will be your last night writing for me, won't it," she said softly. "Very well ... you know what you have to do."

There were, as always, two neatened spaces set on the front of her desk; two clean sheafs of parchment awaited them, each accompanied by a dark quill. Fred didn't need to guide George; they had been here so many times they knew the way by heart, and in any case, with Umbridge's beady eyes fixated on the two of them, he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing his weakness.

Fred sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, raising the malignant quill. His left fist clenched in his lap and he could once more see the old scars gleaming raw and red against his skin.

"You will write for me ... 'I will not cause a riot.' One roll should be enough to sink in."

Neither of the twins said anything to that; George ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, finding the quill. His face was perfectly impassive as he felt along the parchment with his left hand, gauging the space he had to write. Fred would have done double the lines if it would have helped him avoid this torture; but George was too attached to the last of his pride as he laid his hand against the upper left of the parchment, underlining where he would write as he set the quill to paper.

Fred, clenching his teeth until he tasted blood, followed his twin's example. The scratching of the sadistic quills filled the silent office; blood gleamed against his parchment and Fred's fist clenched unconsciously at the dull throb of pain. _Don't let her get the better of you, _he reflected silently. _Don't ... show weakness..._

"Oh, dear," Umbridge interrupted with a faint _tsk_ing noise of her tongue. "This won't do at all now – you must write it _straight_, Mr Weasley."

Fred glanced over at George; indeed, his writing slanted terribly even with his efforts to guide his quill, the scripted words close to illegible. Umbridge tugged the parchment flecked with blood away from him.

"Now then, you'll start over and do it properly this time."

Fred bit back a searing retort, instead chewing forcibly on the inside of his lip. This wasn't the first time she had done this ... Despite his every effort George still couldn't write well enough to satiate the toadlike woman, who watched with an almost gleeful eye as he slaved on page over page, until at last his efforts were near obscured in the blood running freely from his left hand.

He grit his teeth and shoved his half-finished parchment at George. "Here. Give it to me."

Professor Umbridge's eyebrows shot up; a moment later her sugary smile was back in place as she tittered, "Oh, no, that won't teach him a lesson, now, will it?"

"Drop it, Fred," George mumbled. "You've gotta get to practice after this..."

But Fred wouldn't back down; he'd watched him suffer and bleed for no goddamn reason other than the woman's sadistic pleasure for too long. "Give it to me," he repeated. "I'll write two bloody rolls, even. But that's the straightest his writing's been so far and you know it."

Professor Umbridge's eyes flicked to the window, where the sky was already darkening; her smile broadened. "Very well," she said, pushing a new sheaf of parchment toward him. "Two rolls." As Fred grimaced and got to work, she withdrew her stubby wand and incinerated the previous effort, lightly dusting the ashes off her desk.

Fred wrote as quickly as he could, not caring for how his fist burned raw in response, or the fact that his writing was now nearly illegible, smudged and blotted in red; he wasn't missing Quidditch practice for their torture session. He cast an occasional quick glance sideways, assuring himself that George – working at a much more cautious pace – continued to fill his page. Dutifully he finished his half just as Fred reached the bottom of his first roll.

Professor Umbridge drew their papers toward herself, surveying their work. Fred subtly flexed his hand in his lap, unconscious to the fact that his pants were smudged with bloodstains. George closed his right palm overtop his left fist, silently awaiting judgment.

At last Umbridge set aside the parchment and handed Fred his second roll. "Mr Weasley, you may leave," she said quietly, looking once more to the window. If there were small silhouettes darting about in the sunset-tinged sky, Fred did not look toward them. George hesitated, half rising from his chair.

"Go on," Fred said gruffly. "I'll be done in a few."

George nodded, silently collecting his bag from where it lay at his feet; his fist gleamed with streaked blood as he swung it onto his shoulder and ventured cautiously from the office.

The door closed behind him with a quiet thump; Fred bent lower over his parchment, his eyes narrowed, determined to write himself down to the bone if it would keep his twin out of that office for the rest of his life.

**·:·**

The daylight was dying by the time Fred ran out onto the Quidditch pitch, his half-tied cloak flapping in his wake and his broomstick under his arm. He cursed at length under his breath – cursing Umbridge for being a sadist, Malfoy for being a manipulative bastard, _himself _for never listening to his twin. He stopped short in the half-melted slush, raising a hand to his brow to squint upward. The Gryffindor team was down at the end of the pitch – working, it seemed, on some Keeper drills with Ron.

Fred paused a moment to catch his breath, casting around the empty stands. Well – not entirely empty. He was pretty sure that was Hermione up there, bundled up with a book in her lap; but George wasn't with her. A frown tugged at his lips as he scanned the stands again. George knew he had practice; even if Mrs Weasley had banned him from playing again, he never missed coming out to support him.

An odd feeling of foreboding settled in his chest: Fred's mind buzzed with worry at the notion that he had no idea where his twin was at the moment. Even if George was improving every day, even if Fred knew he knew the castle like the back of his own hand ... it still reminded him of those first terrible days when George had been avoiding him and wandered off on his own. Maybe he was just being overprotective, but Fred had grown used to having his twin always within his grasp, able to reach out if he needed to readjust his course or guide him through the unknown.

Fred shook his head; George had probably gone ahead to bed, he reckoned; after all, neither of them liked their detentions with Umbridge ... With that conviction Fred swung his leg over his broom and kicked off in a shower of slush, rising into the night air.

"Where were you?" was Angelina's form of greeting when he drew level with the squad; they were hovering around the goalposts, Katie with the Quaffle now under her arm.

"Detention." Fred's flat tone prevented her from inquiring further; nevertheless, Angelina sighted his left hand, which he had attempted to wrap with tissue on the way over; it hadn't staunched the bleeding, and now the material was stained with blood.

"Well, please try not to get in detention with her again," Angelina settled for with a faint sympathetic look; then she cleared her throat. "Well ... since we can't have George back, we put out word we were looking for a Beater ... we've got a replacement now."

"Who?" Fred asked automatically. At that moment a second figure flew up beside him, and Fred had to stop his jaw from dropping.

"Wha – Ginny?"

"Yeah, it's me," Ginny said, her chin tilted in a challenge for him to retort.

"She can fly really well," Angelina put in, "better than everyone else who tried out, anyway. Fred, you'll have to work on her skills ... the rest of us are still working on Ron."

Fred nodded, still too shocked to speak; the fact that of all people, his sister would decide to be a Beater... Angelina flew off, whistling sharply to resume her drill with the rest of the team. Fred in a daze watched from the corner of his eye as Katie flew toward Ron, defending the hoops. Ginny drifted in front of him.

"You ... you know how to fly?" he asked incredulously once he had found his voice. Ginny snorted.

"Of course I do. I'm not an idiot."

"Right, well," Fred backtracked, as Ginny regarded him as though he was a bit dim. Defensively he said, "You can't do this. I mean, Beater's the most dangerous position – I won't have my sister mutilated out there –"

"You've told me yourself it's most dangerous to be Seeker," she countered, her arms crossed. "And besides – I chose to do this."

"That doesn't matter!" Fred said angrily. "Look – I can't protect you out there. You saw how George got hurt, I don't want that to happen again!"

"And do you think I need protecting just 'cause I'm a girl?" Ginny said, drawing herself up. "Why don't you tell _that_ to the captain and see what she says. I can take care of myself, thank you very much, and I _want to play_."

Fred understood the threat clearly, and shut up. Casting a wary eye at Angelina where she was overseeing the Keeper drills, he sighed and raked a hand through his hand. "Fine," he muttered. "Just ... be careful."

Ginny nodded, her chin still defiantly raised. Fred wheeled his broom around and led her back to the ground, where the Quidditch crate lay open at center field; he kicked loose one of the Bludgers and passed Ginny a bat. Together they rose back into the sky, Ginny watching the black ball come whistling at them out of the shadows.

"Right then..." Fred's mouth had gone dry and he was suddenly reminded of the long ago November evening he and George had spent like this, him watching helplessly as his twin floundered, attempting to track down the Bludgers. Unconsciously he circled a little closer to his sister, clenching his own bat in his fist. Just in case...

The Bludger roared in on them; Ginny hefted her bat, her teeth clenched, and swung out. CRACK! The Bludger arced off in the opposite direction and Ginny's smooth follow-through nearly hit Fred in the jaw as he hovered, ready to intervene if needed.

He stared at his sister now, disbelief – and a little fear – plain in his features. Ginny was a natural at this ... how had they never noticed it before? Ginny had her hands on her hips, grinning now at him in a manner that clearly said, _I told you so_.

Fred turned away, hoping to salvage some of his dignity as he said offhandedly, "Well, I suppose if I can't play with George, you'll do."

"Well, I should hope so," Ginny huffed, "he's the one who told me to try out."

Fred froze. Slowly, he turned back to stare at her. "He what?"

"He said something about ... what was it now, you 'didn't want to play with a random someone else'," Ginny reiterated, her lips quirking slightly. Fred blinked; the words sounded somewhat familiar.

_George ... somehow you see far more than the rest of us._ Fred shook his head, wondering wryly at the fact. Nevertheless he returned to his training with Ginny with considerably more zeal, showing her how the slightest wrist motion as she swung through could precisely adjust her aim; Ginny was a fast learner and Fred had to accept the fact that she had perhaps as much talent as any of them, if not more.

When at last it was nearly too dark to see the Bludger streaking after them, Angelina's whistle sounded; the considerably worn team dropped to the ground once more.

"Same time next week," Angelina called. "We're getting there ... One month until the match with Hufflepuff still, so keep working." The team nodded and shuffled off; Fred and Ginny went to retrieve the Quidditch crate.

"Hey," Harry said, coming up alongside Fred and Ginny, helping to hoist the bucking crate. "That was some brilliant flying back there."

"Thanks," Ginny said quietly, suddenly very interested in the crate hanging between them. Fred smirked sideways at Harry, who was distracted at that moment by a thought.

"George didn't come out tonight with you, did he?" Harry squinted up at the dark stands. "I didn't see him earlier..."

"No, he was in detention with me," Fred said, remembering then, guiltily, George's absence. "I – I guess he went ahead to the common room."

Harry nodded, and for a moment they crunched through the snow in silence. "D'you want to check?" he asked quietly, shifting nearer to Fred so that Ginny couldn't overhear. "I have the Map in my bag."

Evidently, Harry had sensed Fred's unease; he nodded, reassured by the security of the knowledge. He was probably just being too paranoid, but ... with George, he never knew any more...

The minutes waiting for the rest of the team to file out of the change room passed agonizingly slowly; at last, when the door closed behind Ron, Harry pulled the ancient sheaf of parchment from his book bag and touched his wand to it, whispering, "_I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_."

At once inky lines spread across the parchment, forming a sketchy copy of Hogwarts School and its surrounding grounds; Fred bend over the map, scanning the now-deserted corridors. Gryffindor Tower lay out at their fingertips, but a quick look at the seventh year dorm revealed only Kenneth Towler to already be asleep.

The odd feeling of foreboding clenched tighter in his stomach. Now growing desperate, Fred checked the common room, the kitchens, even – on a whim – the library; all were devoid of his twin's presence. Then Harry shifted slightly.

"There."

He pointed to the hospital wing where a tiny dot was labelled 'George Weasley'. Fred swore under his breath, the distant feeling now manifesting in alarm bells in his head. _Goddamn it_, he _knew_ George had been losing too much blood writing lines ... if he had gotten himself hurt ...

Still cursing, Fred set off at a run for the castle; Harry was on his heels, stuffing the Marauder's Map back in his bag as he went; Fred ignored the fact that he was still in his scarlet Quidditch robes, that he was tracking snow and mud across the Entrance Hall as he raced up the marble staircase, with each step cursing vehemently. _Stupid ..._ stupid _Fred ... H_e had left him alone again, and now what ...

He practically flew up to the seventh floor and burst through the hospital wing doors, stopping short with his chest heaving. Harry skidded to a stop a moment later behind him, panting. Across the room, Madam Pomfrey and a white-robed man looked up from where they had been conferring; a figure crouched on the edge of the bed between them.

Fred started forward. "George!"

His twin glanced up; the healers stepped aside and Fred stopped in front of his brother, urgently searching his expression for an indication of his injuries; but George's face was carefully blank. His left hand was neatly bandaged and was clenched in his lap; he had discarded his school shirt and the bandage on his shoulder suggested they had taken a blood sample.

"George ... are you...?" Fred tapered off, his fear wavering with bewilderment. George did not meet his eye; Fred whirled on the healers. Madam Pomfrey was frowning slightly at the tracks of mud spattered all the way from the door. Beside her was a brown-haired, smiling man that Fred distantly recognized – the healer from St Mungo's. _What was his name, again?_

"...My appointment, Fred, remember," George said quietly.

"...Oh." Fred sank down on the bed next to him, finding his legs shaking from his run. "Well. Are you all right, then?" Fred looked from his twin to the healers and back, anxiety growing in his expression again.

Healer Murray smiled gently. "We've finished the tests. We should have results within a few weeks, and then we'll know for sure if George here is in good shape."

"Can I go now?" George requested quietly, shifting on the edge of the bed. Fred, reaching for his hand, found his skin to be icy.

"Yes, we are done for today," Madam Pomfrey nodded. "I trust you two can find your way to your common room yourselves."

"Yeah, 'course," said Fred, grabbing George's robes off the bedside table and handing them to him. George struggled into his clothes a bit more slowly than usual, his movements sluggish, and Fred wondered if they had given him medication again – he had noticed George had stopped taking it in the mornings as of late, sick of trading in his much-needed heightened senses for the temporary relief.

Fred helped him to his feet, a hand clasping his elbow. George wavered a little and he held him steady as the healers gave their last instructions.

"I'll contact you for a follow-up when the results are in," Madam Pomfrey confided. "Until then, continue to take good care of yourself. I've already supplied you with a renewed dose of that pain-relieving potion, so see to it you continue to take it every morning."

George said nothing to that; at a nod from the healers, Fred led him unsteadily toward the door, a supporting hand under his arm all the while.

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Note: For those who haven't read the original version - it's true, I took out George playing Quidditch. I know it seemed unrealistic to some, and it didn't mesh as well with what I fixed in earlier chapters, so there you have it. Hey ... at least Fred still has a familiar face with him? :D Please review!


	24. Burden

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 - **Edits. Following through with what I said last chapter, expect this to be different. :D

* * *

**Chapter 24 - Burden**

_"You may need me there_

_To carry all your weight_

_But you're no burden I assure_

_You tide me over_

_With a warmth I'll not forget_

_But I can only give you love…"_

_-Ever the Same, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

January turned itself over to February with a glimmer of the hopeful spring weather ahead; nevertheless, when Fred awoke early on the morning of the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff matchup, the dormitory air was tinged with frost. Suppressing the slightest shiver he tugged his blankets higher about his neck and threw his pillow over his head.

_Great, just what we needed,_ he brooded, burrowing deeper into the bed in the futile hope of conserving some warmth. _It'll be bloody_ freezing _in the air..._

After wasting several minutes tossing and turning, teased by the memory of some half-remembered dream, Fred at last gave in to the inevitable. He somehow untangled himself from the mess of his blankets and dragged himself toward the trunk at the foot of his bed. Treading on cat's feet so as not to disturb the lucky sleepers that were his dorm mates, Fred shuffled through piles of strewn clothes until he withdrew, triumphantly, a blue-and-yellow jumper clenched in his fist.

He tugged the jumper over his head, only grimacing faintly to be wearing the traditional Christmas jumper. _Ah well ..._ it wasn't much of a sacrifice just to stay warm. Now somewhat more awake, he dragged a hand through his unruly hair and squinted about the darkened chamber. By the glow of Lee's alarm clock, it was nearing seven thirty; considering it was a Saturday morning, Fred would bet anything that none of the other boys would be coherent for another two hours at least. With a sigh, he considered he might as well head down to the kitchens and eat something when, shifting up from his crouched position on the floor, he caught sight of George's deserted bed.

Not again. Not today. Cursing softly under his breath, Fred made toward the door in search of his twin. Already his mind was buzzing: George had taken to frequenting Hagrid's hut of late, to visit that injured Thestral, or maybe he'd had similar thoughts of breakfast – his actively churning worries stopped short at a shift of movement from the corner of his eye. Fred turned back on the dark dormitory.

He wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't moved: George was curled in the slight alcove between the tall window and the jutted ledge beneath, his knees pulled to his chest. By the faint light of dawn filtering through the glass, his form was only a silhouette, an eerie light ghosting the side of his face as he turned, searching out the figure bumbling about in the dark.

"Fred?" he whispered at last.

"Yeah. It's me." Fred ventured nearer, leaning up against the wall next to him. George nodded faintly and turned back on the window. There was a dusting of snow spiralling downward beyond the glass – he had one hand pressed against the window, tracing idle shapes with his fingertips on the pane. He was dressed only in his too-short pyjamas and Fred forced himself into motion again.

"You must be cold." George didn't answer. Shaking his head faintly, Fred retreated to his brother's trunk; he fetched an identical jumper, this one with a G, and brought it to him. "Here. Put this on."

"'m not," George protested faintly, but by the shiver in his shoulders as he drew back from the window, Fred wasn't fooled. With obstinacy that would have done their mother proud, Fred eventually won out and George pulled on the jumper.

"There, happy now," he muttered ruefully, nevertheless smiling slightly. Fred smirked in return.

"Very."

George shifted, his back now to the window, lowering his feet from the ledge; this gesture allowed Fred enough space to perch next to him, casting thoughtlessly at the snow tugged sideways on the wind outside. He grimaced, "You're lucky you don't have to play in this weather, y'know."

George didn't answer; they sat in silence, Fred poking at a fray in his sleeve, George leaning his head against the cold of the window. There was nothing to be said; Fred would be playing today, and George wouldn't, and that's all there was to it. If George rued the fact, he said nothing to that effect, and Fred knew better than to stir up the past again.

When the stirring of the other boys broke through their respective contemplations, Fred stood, stretching grandly, his joints popping; George reluctantly relinquished his perch. Neither spoke as they joined Lee in his journey downstairs for breakfast.

**·:·**

"All right."

The two words alone brought stillness to the sombre silence of the Gryffindor locker room. Overheard, the murmured jubilations of the gathering crowd echoed across the room; inside, however, the six players in scarlet robes were motionless as they regarded their captain.

Angelina cast about the room, meeting the eye of each player in turn. Her previous long speeches about effort and honour had abandoned her, moments before the deciding match; now she only managed a small smile. "Let's ... just go out there and show them what we're made of."

With that she quietly returned to her seat between Alicia and Katie.

Fred glanced around the room; the familiar faces of the Gryffindor team were ashen. Beside him, Ginny was fiddling with her braided hair; she looked smaller wearing George's baggy robes. She looked up then, catching his stare, and smiled; Fred returned the look, grimacingly.

This would be the first Quidditch match he'd play without George beside him; that reality was unnerving of itself. Taking a shaky breath he diverted his gaze from Ginny, turning to his other side. Dressed in dark school robes, George was sitting on his opposite side, his pale expression ill as though he too would be joining them in the sky; his gaze was downcast and he worried absently with his sleeve.

Fred reached over; George did not flinch as he touched his arm. "You should go find a seat," he mumbled. He didn't voice his silent concern, _I don't want you getting lost without me. _George, however, shook his head faintly.

"'m all right." There was a silent message underlying his words, too. _I know you need me here now. _Fred swallowed hard and pulled away.

He hated waiting like this; he itched to be moving, to be flying, anything. Fred tossed aside his broom and paced the cramped room, his strides stiff. He did not look at his twin, even as George amassed his discarded broomstick and held to it thoughtlessly, fingering grooves in the rough handle.

All too soon, yet not soon enough, Angelina rose to her feet. "Let's go."

With her command the rest of the Gryffindor team rustled to their feet as one and joined the line for the door. Fred drew a long breath, heading back to the bench. He took his broom and bat from George with a faint mumble of something like thanks.

George tilted his head, holding to Fred's hand a moment longer. "Good luck, Gred."

"Same to you, Forge."

Fred lingered a moment longer, watching as Ginny swiftly embraced his twin. Then the two of them followed to the door, George listening to their exit with his head tilted to the side, his smile wavering and his gaze distant.

**·:·**

A soft whistle split the air. Leaning against the rough wooden fence, George repeated the call, waiting breathless in the frosty morning air. A moment later his heart leaped to hear the familiar crunching of snow and tramping of hooves.

"Hey, Teyla," he greeted as the Thestral came to a stop in front of him; she snorted, her breath hot on his cheek. Holding out a hand, George rubbed the soft fuzz of her nose. "Feeling better, are you?"

He didn't really expect an answer as she nuzzled his palm affectionately. With a laugh George dug in his pockets for the treats he had slipped that morning from the kitchens.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" He offered his left palm up, holding out an apple. Her leathery lips feathered his fingers as she excitedly devoured the treat.

Once the apple was gone, George hoisted himself over the fence and dropped to his feet beside her in the paddock; he held out his hands again, steadying himself against her withers. Teyla remained perfectly complacent beneath his touch, though her muscles quivered with energy as he trailed his hand carefully along her side, finding the bandages coating her left wing.

"Hagrid says you'll be fully healed in a few weeks," he informed her, tugging slightly at the bandages to ensure they were tight. This task done, he fed her a bit more toast for her willingness. "Then you can go back to the herd. You must miss them, huh? Bet they're like family to you."

Teyla nudged his hand, asking for more food.

"Yeah, yeah, I know ... I'll miss you when you go back, you know that?" George grinned at her, rubbing the often-itchy area between her ears. Teyla bobbed her head and whinnied, appreciating the scratch.

He hardly paid mind to the approach of footsteps until a voice called out, uncertainly, "George? Is that you?"

He turned, one hand still on Teyla's head; the sudden guardedness of his features eased, however, as he recognized the speaker. "Hermione. What a surprise."

The ancient fence creaked as the fifth year leaned against it. "What are you doing out here?" Hermione asked breathlessly. "Shouldn't you be – well – at the match?"

"I could ask you the same," George said amiably.

Hermione was silent for a moment. "I was," she admitted at last, "but I can't ... I can't watch it..."

"Is it really that bad, then," George commented. "I can hear the cheering, from here..."

"No, no, it isn't," Hermione hastily backtracked. "They're playing really well, it's just that ... well, Hufflepuff's better," she concluded uncomfortably. "Ron let in a few goals earlier and lost his nerve ... You can tell Fred and Ginny are having trouble – it's not that she's not good, it's just that they're all over the place, not reading each other at all..."

She trailed off. George had his back to her, silently stroking Teyla's neck. "I'm sorry," she mumbled at last. "It's not your fault, George, don't think it's –"

"No," George said quietly, as a roar of applause echoed across the grounds. "Was that us?"

"I don't know," Hermione whispered. "Oh – maybe it's the Snitch, maybe it's over –" The wave of cheers crested over them, lasting for a long moment before silence returned to the wintry grounds. "George, maybe we should go back."

George nodded faintly, fishing the last of the now-cold toast from his pocket and dropping it in the snow. Teyla went after it eagerly, and George lingered a last moment stroking her neck.

"I'll come by later, all right?" he whispered to her. Teyla's ears flicked upward as though she understood. "I promise."

Leaving her rustling forage behind, he clambered over the fence and followed Hermione's uncertain footsteps back toward the Quidditch stadium.

**·:·**

The silent atmosphere in the common room that evening was unbearable; a few had found positive points in the game's denouement and recounted them to a dulled audience; George curled next to his twin on the couch, a book on his lap, but he was too distracted by the unnatural quiet to read. Fred, on the other hand, made no effort to disguise his mood: he sat there bleakly, occasionally dragging his hands through his hair with a disgusted mutter, "Lost ... to Hufflepuff, again ... _God_..."

Across from them, Harry and Ron had quietly been playing wizard's chess, but after a time Ron had excused himself to bed, by his flat tone also burdened by the loss. George wasn't sure where the rest of the team had gone, if they were enduring the stony silence or had already turned in to bed.

With a surrendering sigh, he closed his book and rose. There was no reason to stay here ... he had the new fireworks plans, which they had developed earlier that month with Lee's help, to check over ... Mindlessly he shifted toward the boys' staircase, and Fred made no attempt to stop him.

Once ensconced in the welcome sanctuary of the deserted dormitory, George pulled several rolls of parchment from his trunk and laid them out on his bed; he tapped each with his wand, the translation spell now an easy habit. This way he read over the notes Lee had written for him in the dark, double-checking the spellwork that would be necessary to enhance the effects of their special Weasley brand fireworks to the maximum.

Nevertheless, in the lonely silence, the thoughts stewing at the back of his mind came back to surface. He furrowed his brow, trying to keep focused on his task, but the haunting echo did not leave him be.

_It's your fault the team lost, you know ... If only you had learned to play again, like Fred asked ..._

George shook his head, scattering those dark thoughts. "Don't be stupid," he muttered aloud. There. Now he was going insane, too, talking to himself like this. He squinted, trailing his fingertips along the parchment.

_Fred would have done it._

George stopped short, his breath catching in his chest. Of course, if it would have been Fred, things would have been different; Fred would have had the nerve to keep playing; no matter the odds, he would have found a way to defy fate, for that was just the way Fred was. But George...

_I'd be killed out there,_ George argued with himself. _It's too dangerous, and for what? A stupid trophy?_ There was no sense in his worries, the logical part of him disputed, yet he couldn't help but think of the repressive silence of the common room and a thought hung, fearful to be said aloud, in his mind.

What if Fred blamed him for this? What if the whole team blamed him? He was _weak,_ that's what he was, a coward, unworthy to be called a Gryffindor...

"I'm not!" he growled, clenching his fists. Would it have been brave to go out with the team, flying blind? Would it have helped to prove himself? No – _no_ – he was just being smart, knowing the risks –

But, _Fred_.

He didn't care what the others thought ... but Fred, he wanted Fred to accept him. Even if he was different. Even if he was just a – just a burden now – holding him back from what he wanted –

The dormitory door creaked open; angrily George scrubbed a fist over his eyes, trying to stop the burning that had started there. He turned away from the door, hunched on the bed.

"George?"

It was Fred's voice, hesitantly imploring him. George didn't turn around; his breathing was coming in sharper, painful rasps now. The sudden silence between them petrified him and George wished, for a vehement instant, that Fred would turn around and leave him be, leave him –

"George, are you all right?"

Fred's footsteps neared and the edge of the bed shifted under his weight. George felt his twin's eyes on his back, yet he still did not answer; he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his head between his arms, shutting out the world.

A hand touched his shoulder; George tensed, and at once his wan effort at composure crumpled away.

His voice cracked. "I'm sorry, Fred."

Fred considered his words a moment. "For what?"

His ignorance sparked his fury, and raising his head George growled, "For being useless, that's what! For – for letting you down today, and before, and – and –" His tears betrayed him; George scrubbed furiously at his eyes, cursing under his breath.

"What?" Fred's voice was surprised. "You're not, George. Is this ... because we lost today? It's just a game, George, and yeah, we lost pretty pathetically to Hufflepuff, but we're still in the running if we beat Ravenclaw –"

Fred stopped short. "Forget Quidditch," he said with sudden vehemence. "It's not your fault, all right? We didn't expect you to go out there again –"

George remained obstinate. "I should've. I should've been there."

"What would it've done, really?" Fred asked him. "C'mon, George, just ... here," parchment rustled as Fred picked up some of his work, a stubborn note in his tone. "Feel this ... feel this, George. Way at the beginning of November, you couldn't have read this, you couldn't have kept going to classes, neither of us could've imagined we'd keep working on our joke shop. At the beginning of November," he said quietly, "it would've been the end of the world if the school knew what really happened."

George said nothing, fingering the bit of parchment. _Weasley's Whiz-Bangs, the new and improved specialty of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, _he read without really registering the words.

"In November, I don't think either of us could picture where we are now. Because you've changed, George, and I mean it in a good way. Every day I thank God you've my brother because neither of us could've done this alone." Hesitantly he reached out, touching his arm. "You've done so much already, George ... you're not useless, anything but."

His throat hurt. What Fred said wasn't to flatter him – that wasn't Fred's way, he was always so blunt about everything ... He was telling the truth, and the faith he conveyed in his words was nearly overwhelming. George rubbed again at his eyes, irritated by how quickly the tears came, now, and drew a shaky breath.

"Fred..." The terrible thought that had haunted the back of his mind since December at last brought itself to surface, and George clenched his fists in his lap, his voice trembling. "Fred. I – I can't remember what you look like."

In the silence he heard his twin's sharp draw of breath, but he said nothing; George squeezed his eyes shut.

"Well, I look like you, of course," Fred said after a moment. Somehow George was reminiscing a day long past, when he told Fred to look in the mirror and describe what he couldn't see. "You know? The same red hair, blue eyes, freckles..."

George shook his head, the same panic of the day he had tried to create a Patronus closing in his throat. Fred couldn't understand ... he already had those vague details in his memory, but to piece them together was something else; the mirror was shattered, some shards lost to him forever.

"Here."

Fred grabbed George's hands, taking him by utter surprise; he didn't protest, however, drawn almost to curiosity at the fervent determination in Fred's voice. Then, with just as much fervency, Fred laid George's palms against the sides of his face.

"This is what we look like."

George tilted his head, his eyes widening in bemusement. "Fred...?"

"See by what you feel ... that's what you told us earlier, isn't it?" Fred's voice betrayed the slightest quaver now. George nodded, unable to respond, trailing his fingertips wonderingly over his strong brow, his eyelids, his temples. Fred didn't move; he seemed to hardly dare to breathe as George retraced the paths of his memories.

He closed his eyes. The Fred in front of him was different from the vague image in his head; this Fred was more real, somehow, the draw of each breath warm on his hands, his unquestioning acceptance almost tactile. George ingrained each contour of his face in his mind, not to replace the vague memory of a mirror but something else on its own, something that, without seeing, became such a part of him.

When George at last lowered his hands, the sheen of his previous tears had dried; he stared at his brother, his throat nearly too tight to speak save for three words. "Fred ... thank you."

Fred, if he sensed the myriad of emotions carried on the simple thanks, did not dare puncture the sanctity of the unsaid; or, him being his usual oblivious self again, it had perhaps passed entirely over his head. Nevertheless, there was something of a smile in his voice when he spoke again.

"Whatever happens, Forge, I'll be right beside you. I solemnly swear it."

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Note: I really like that scene at the end; it's sort of a bittersweet reprise of the events way back in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. :)


	25. Ever

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Edits.

* * *

**Chapter 25 - Ever**

_"Fall on me_

_Tell me everything you want me to be_

_Forever with you, forever in me_

_Ever the same."_

_-Ever the Same, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

Spring was something that unfurled itself slowly: the snow melted and ran in rivulets down to the freshly lapping lake, and one eventually noticed that after a time the castle fires were not lit as often, and one could venture outside without bundling in a thick winter cloak.

It was late in March when Madam Pomfrey called George back for his follow-up; that evening Fred followed him to the hospital wing and sat a sort of sentinel, as promised, at his brother's side. To him it seemed George held his shoulders a little higher; and when Madam Pomfrey announced with a smile that George was in good health, he relaxed enough to actually give the matron a hug. It was the first time Fred had seen Madam Pomfrey let her prim composure go in the presence of students, and she even apologized with feeling for not giving him a proper check up sooner.

(George was probably secretly grateful for that, but accepted her apology with good faith anyway.)

Classes progressed in their usual fashion: Umbridge was horrid, as expected, but in his other classes George diligently continued to raise his marks through unconventional efforts. Professor McGonagall had taken him up on Fred's earlier suggestion of oral-based examinations, and if she realized their earlier deception, she said nothing to that end. Very quickly his success at this caught on, and his other teachers chose to test him in the same manner, at McGonagall's urging. Fred, finding himself studying anyway with George and Hermione every night, also found his own grades improving, to his chagrin, and wrote it off as the teachers being overly sympathetic. George and Hermione disagreed, but he refused to listen to any other hypotheses.

Outside of class, the fervent training prior to the last Quidditch match of the season accumulated to the point that Fred had practice every other night each week; George would accompany him down to the pitch, sometimes staying to read in the stadium, others wandering off until Fred found him afterward down by Hagrid's hut, enjoying the company of Teyla the Thestral who, according to Hagrid, was recovering well herself from her injury. Between their practices, Harry somehow found time to keep scheduling the clandestine meetings of Dumbledore's Army, to which they all joined in earnestly in an effort to defy Umbridge's tightening fist on the school.

It was one such evening in April that the twins made their way down the deserted halls toward the seventh floor Room of Requirement. George had twice alerted him moments before one of the Inquisitorial Squad prowling the corridors descended upon them, and with Fred's quick reactions guiding them, the twins hastened to hide themselves. Fred now breathed a long sigh of relief as Draco Malfoy's blond head passed out of sight of the fake tapestry they had taken cover behind; he poked his head out into the corridor, checked both directions, and deeming them to be clear hopped out of the secret passage. George trailed him a moment later, finding his hand again.

"Thanks for the warning," Fred whispered, grateful not for the first time for his twin's heightened sensitivity. George only offered a half-smirk in acknowledgement as they hastened the rest of the way to the hidden door of the Room of Requirement.

Once inside the sanctuary of the untraceable room, Fred breathed a lot easier. Due to their hold-up, they were some of the last to arrive, and Fred cut a way through the murmuring crowd to where Lee, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were chatting.

"Finally!" grinned Lee, sighting them. "Did your guide dog get lost again?"

"Oi, shut it," Fred growled, but before he could sufficiently retort, somewhere from the center of the room came a whistle. Immediately the crowd of students fell silent, all eyes on their leader.

"Right then," Harry announced. "I think we've got the Stunning Spell down pretty well now, so we might as well take a break tonight. How does working on Patronuses sound?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd; it had been before Christmas last time they'd practiced the Patronus charm, and though the subject had been broached in much eagerness in enquiries to their leader, Harry had thought it better they keep on practical work until now.

"All right," Harry grinned at their enthusiasm, "let's get to it. I'll come around in a few minutes to help out."

The crowd split off into their respective groups. Fred drew his wand, as the others had, and flexed his hand experimentally. Lee was already vehemently muttering, "Expecto Patronum ... Expecto Patronum ..."

He closed his eyes in an effort to block out the bustle of motion, trying to recall what memory he'd used last time, when he'd managed to his utter surprise to conjure a flicker of mist. It had been only for an instant, but ... He strained his memory.

It was no good; in the terror and rush of the night's aftermath – and their father's injury – he had lost the distant thought. With a blank slate he tried again. _A memory ... a happy memory ..._

**·:·**

George, meanwhile, found the surrounding mumbling and shuffling of the other students distracting; thus, wand in hand, he headed off for a secluded corner of the room. If there were people around him, they moved out of his path as he passed, until the noise had died down somewhat.

George paused. He was usually quite good with gauging his position; now he felt a little lost without Fred's footsteps echoing his. Shaking off the feeling, he raised his wand and tried to focus.

"Oh, hello, George."

That airy tone was unmistakeable; George started and twisted his head in the direction of her voice. "Luna? I haven't heard from you in a while."

"No, I suppose we've both been busy," she concluded amiably. "Hagrid did say you've been to see Teyla, too, but I suppose we always just missed each other."

"Yeah," George said distantly. "She's better now than before. I ... I'm sorry, it's kind of my fault she got hurt."

"I'm sure she doesn't mind overly much," Luna assured him. "I do like her. She's the friendliest of the herd."

"I've noticed." George smiled slightly. "I like her, too."

In the background, Harry was making his usual rounds, his occasional compliment or suggestion distantly registering in his mind. George closed his eyes, trying to block out his surroundings as he raised his wand. _Right then ... a happy memory ..._

"You're not with your brother," Luna noted. George inclined his head toward her; there was curiosity in the phrase, yet wasn't everything she said in that same airy sort of tone?

"Yeah," George acknowledged quietly. "It was too loud over there." But since she brought his attention to it ... maybe there had been a thought lingering at the back of his mind, an unwillingness to embarrass himself in front of the others, in front of Fred who'd already mustered a sort of Patronus... He shook the uncomfortable feeling off.

A sudden awed murmur swept through the nearby students, and George turned toward Luna. "What's happened?"

"Oh ... Hermione's Patronus," Luna offered dreamily. "It's an otter, I think."

George nodded slightly. Of course the Gryffindor genius would be one of the first to conjure a corporeal Patronus.

He closed his eyes and raised his wand, struggling to find some inner focus. "Expecto Patronum," he said firmly. "Expecto..."

Just then George felt the brush of some short presence rushing past him; at first he thought it to be someone's Patronus, but a moment later he registered that the room around them had gone utterly silent. His concentration faltered and he lowered his wand, shivering in the sudden chill of the chamber.

"Dobby – what's wrong?" Harry's voice was mingled with surprise.

Then George heard the nervous squeaking of a house elf. "Harry Potter, sir ... Dobby has come to warn you ... but the house elves have been warned not to tell..." The elf gave a frustrated sort of cry and his footsteps rushed at the wall. A few squeaks of fear and sympathy went up from the crowd.

"What's happened, Dobby?" Harry appealed to him urgently.

"Harry Potter ... she ... she..."

_She. _George's blood ran cold and he knew, before Harry spoke again, who they were referring to.

"Umbridge? What about her? Dobby – she hasn't found out about this – about us -?"

Dobby didn't answer; the collective gathering seemed to hardly breathe as Harry whispered, "Is she coming?"

Dobby howled, the pounding sounds of him trying to inflict self-mutilation echoing across the room. "Yes, Harry Potter, yes!"

The terror was palpable in the air as Harry, drawing a haggard breath, announced at them all: "What're you waiting for? _RUN_!"

And then all at once there were bodies pressing in on all sides, jostling George in their mad surge for the exit; wild panic rose in his throat as he struggled against them, searching with growing desperation –

"Fred?"

A small hand caught his arm, but the touch was foreign, and George tensed. "It's me," Luna said breathlessly.

"Where's Fred?" he demanded of her.

"I don't know..." The crowd was pushing on all sides of them, dragging them slowly along in the torrent. George bit back his frustration and decided he was grateful enough to have her at his side. He followed Luna out into the corridor, hearing the disorienting pounding of footsteps in all directions – George twisted his head, trying to think. They wouldn't be able to reach the Gryffindor common room in time – not like he could bring Luna there, anyway – no ...

"The Owlery," he whispered, getting an idea. "Let's go." Luna tugged on his hand, leading him from the confusion of the seventh floor corridor; they slipped down a side passage and soon the others had faded from his range of hearing. Luna's breath hitched, her footsteps quickened; she did not dare break the silence as they hurried toward the Owlery.

But then George heard footsteps up ahead of them, moving swiftly in their direction; he hissed a warning to Luna, who froze for a split second; then she pulled him sideways. George followed her to a crouch, feeling cold metal at his back and deeming they were hidden behind a suit of armour. It wasn't much for cover, but... He fished his wand from his pocket, just in case.

The pant of heavy breathing at the end of the corridor made him stiffen; two pairs of footsteps marched along the hall, more restrained now, the duo surely on alert. "Swore I heard something," growled a voice he recognized as that of Montague – the Slytherin who had injured Teyla in January. George bit down hard so as not to react and tasted blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.

"Come out, wherever you are," sang the other Slytherin boy, a cruel sneer in his words. George's shaking fist clenched around his wand. He would have given anything to attack them now, to avenge Teyla, but he knew well enough he would only endanger the both of them if he tried. Even with hearing to guide him, that was little help to his aim; so any sort of surprise attack was out of the question, and there was no way to signal Luna to help him here. Their only advantage was the dark: the Slytherins hadn't spotted them yet.

The two passed so close to their hiding place that George swore that, if he reached out now, he could touch their passing rustling cloaks; he and Luna hardly dared to breathe now.

Then a rough hand grasped his shoulder, yanking him upright; by her soft surprised squeak, they had grabbed Luna as well. "What do we have here?" hissed George's captor – Montague. "Look at this – a blind weasel and a rat!"

"Professor Umbridge, we caught 'em!" his fellow called out. "Come on now, you." George didn't know what he did next in the scuffle, but Luna gave a faint whimper of pain.

That was it – it was bad enough to get himself caught in this situation, but he _wouldn't_ stand by and watch the Slytherins abuse the fourth year when she had only been trying to help him! With a low growl he thrashed against his captor, feeling hands tighten on his arms as he tried to work his wand out into the open –

"Watch it," Montague snarled, and a fist hit him, hard, in the stomach; George doubled over, gasping, his knees going weak; Montague yanked him back to his feet, dragging him along the corridor. Montague tried to wrestle his wand from his tightly clenched fist and settled for twisting his arm backward, behind his back, so that he couldn't so much as move to curse his captor even if he could have seen him.

George grimaced and spat a mouthful of blood on the floor. By the scuffle of motion behind him, the second Slytherin was dragging Luna along; this was it, they'd be caught by Umbridge, and expelled before morning ... and what of Fred? Would Umbridge, catching one twin, track him down next? The whole DA was in danger because of his blunder...!

George's mind recoiled with all the force he could muster against that notion: hell, he was a Gryffindor, and he was too proud to go down like this without a fight. The spell was in his mind; perhaps because of the long hours of recent practice, the plan formed in his mind, and without even fully registering what he was doing he growled out, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

Truthfully, he didn't know what to expect; even later he wouldn't be able to explain how he knew, at once, that it had worked. Warmth coursed down his arm and his wand trembled in his fist, clenched behind his back; and then suddenly there was an unearthly pressure in the air, some unseen knowledge of presence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

And then there was light: it was a feeble glow around him, but it still made George's breath catch in his chest. He stared, enrapt by the Patronus's presence, too awed to even move.

Distantly George realized Montague had released him; the Slytherin's strangled yell split the air, though the sound, too, came distantly as though through fog. Footsteps pounded against stone; disoriented, George staggered and caught himself against the cold metal of the suit of armour. Somehow he kept his wand aloft, though his arm was trembling.

"What is it?" bellowed the other Slytherin, terror in his voice.

"Curse it, you idiot!" Montague shouted back. There was a fumble of motion, and then – "_Stupefy_!" Red light flashed against the darkness; George, flinching, knew that if they kept shooting spells at random, they'd only end up wounding the two of them – _and where was Luna?_

As though commanded by his thoughts, the Patronus closed in: there was another scuffle, a cry from the Slytherin boy, and then a breathless figure clung to his arm. "Thank you," Luna breathed in his ear. George didn't hesitate; raising his wand, he silently called out to the Patronus again.

_Chase them off._

The soft hum almost like beating wings filled the air; then the Slytherins were screaming again, footsteps slapping off stone as they ran. Their voices echoed down the corridor until he could no longer hear them and George, suddenly drained, dropped to his knees on the cold stone.

Some sort of warmth slowly seeped into the air and he raised his head, blearily, recognizing the Patronus's glow had returned to his side. With effort he staggered back to his feet. "C'mon ... got to move," he muttered to Luna. He thrust his wand out, directing the Patronus's light before them as a guide; he clamped a hand to Luna's arm, she stumbling after him down the hall.

Their footsteps quickened; George's heart was in his throat. Someone must have heard their scuffle, at least, what with all the Slytherins' racket; it was only a matter of time until Umbridge swept by, and he'd prefer to be far from the area when that happened –

There were footsteps mirroring their hasty pace up ahead and George flung out his wand, sending the Patronus swooping at them –

"Geor – wha -!"

That strangled voice was definitely familiar, and George's concentration faltered; hastily he commanded the Patronus back, _back_ as they stood in the dark hall, panting with adrenaline.

"Fred?" George appealed. "What're you – where're you –"

"We were looking for you," said Fred. Meanwhile Lee's voice demanded, "What the hell was that – nearly dive-bombed us –!"

"Sorry," George shrugged. "Thought you might be Slytherins."

"Slytherins!" Lee repeated with something like great offence, while Fred, possibly noting they were both breathing as though they'd run a race and George was clutching his side, caught on.

"What, are you hurt? I'll kill those –"

"Nah, 's all right," George gasped. Something of a smile flickered at his lips as he went on, "I think we scared them off."

"George..." Lee meanwhile said quietly. "Is that your Patronus?"

He registered the same faint hum of sound at his side, the surreal beast awaiting his command. "Yeah. It is."

"But that's a corporeal..." Lee said slowly, and then settled for an awed whisper, "...Wow, mate."

George only grinned faintly, too tired to say much else. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. "Look – the Slytherins could be back any minute, we need to get out of here –"

"Yeah," said Fred firmly. "There's a passage up ahead that'll take us near the kitchens. C'mon."

George felt Luna release his arm and move off with Lee; he hesitated a moment longer, staring at the spot where the light of the Patronus lingered in the air in front of him. Unconsciously he smiled, reaching out his hand. _Thank you,_ he conveyed with all his mind. _You saved us._

Something soft brushed against his fingertips in recognition; then he at long last relinquished his focus and the misty shape dissolved beneath his touch. The corridor plunged back into wintry chill and George's shoulders slumped in sudden exhaustion. He welcomed Fred's hand on his wrist, gently tugging him after the others.

"D'you want me to tell you...?" Fred asked quietly.

George considered his offer, leaning slightly against him with his eyes closed. At last he grinned and shook his head.

"No. Besides ... I think I already know."

_To be continued..._

* * *

Author's Note: As you might have noticed, I took out the scene where George sics his Patronus on Malfoy ... but this makes it worthwhile. :D Also ... Luna returns, which is nice, since she kind of disappeared off the planet last time.

Until next time, please leave a review :)


	26. Goodbye

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 - **Edits. And - you guessed it - this is all brand new! And compliant with certain parts of OotP, if you know what I mean... :D

* * *

**Chapter 26 – Goodbye**

_"Say goodbye, these days are gone_

_And we can't keep holding on_

_When all we need is some relief_

_From these hard times."_

_-These Hard Times, Matchbox Twenty_

**·:·**

The corridors were unusually silent, even for a Tuesday morning. It prickled uncomfortably at the back of his mind as Fred, barely covering a wide yawn, stumbled down the marble staircase with George only a step behind. Outside of the Great Hall, a group of students lingered, whispering to one another; he caught sight of Alicia and Katie among them, and with a grin started toward them.

"Not expelled, were you? Good," he said in form of greeting. The girls said nothing; Alicia looked at him, dully.

"You haven't heard, then?" murmured Katie. "Look inside. Go on."

Fred cocked an eyebrow, bemused, but nevertheless walked over to the grand doors that were propped open at this hour for breakfast; he peered along the four house tables, registering nothing out of the ordinary aside from maybe a bit more melancholy than usual in the silence. Then his eyes fell on the head table, and any appetite he previously had dissolved to ash.

Smug in her garish pink robes, Professor Umbridge was sitting in the center chair usually reserved for their headmaster. The other teachers were not looking at her. Unnerved, Fred went back to where the girls and George were waiting.

"What is it?" his twin demanded, his head tilted to the side. Fred shook his head, unable to answer.

"She put up Decree Number Twenty-Eight this morning," Alicia said, looking as if she had swallowed something very bitter. "Made herself Headmistress of the school."

The color drained from George's face. "But – but what about Dumbledore?" He looked between them anxiously.

"Gone," said Alicia.

"They couldn't have sacked him!" Fred exclaimed, with difficulty keeping his voice to a furious whisper.

"The Ministry tried to arrest him, apparently, but he didn't give them enough time to do so," Katie said flatly. "But it doesn't matter. He's gone, and all of us have detention for an indefinite amount of time ... you'll hear it soon enough, she had a whole speech a bit earlier."

Fred's fists clenched unconsciously; he swore vehemently under his breath, earning only sympathetic looks from the others. When he had somehow abated his flaring temper long enough to think straight, he seized George's wrist and marched off stiffly, leaving the girls concerned in their wake. He ignored the open doors to the Hall, turning off instead for the kitchens; after a few paces in silence down the corridor, he changed his mind and stopped short in his tracks.

"We've got to do something."

George cast a glance sideways at him, an eyebrow slightly raised.

Fred released his arm and instead began pacing the hall, up and down, his mind working furiously. "We can't let her do this. She's a monster, Forge, she'll destroy the school..." He trailed off, a terrible thought coming to him them; he recalled Umbridge's fervent campaign against half-breeds, Hagrid included, and looked again at his brother. Distant snide words arose in his mind:_ if he were able..._ He knew, with a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, that his brother would be next on her list.

George tilted his head, apparently thinking the same thing. "She can't just kick out students ... the board of governors wouldn't let her..."

Fred clenched his jaw defiantly. "I won't leave you. If she does, I'll go with you."

"You seem to be under the impression that I'd let her," George said, amused. "I've spent months ensuring that I can stay at school, and I'm not gonna let the toad stop me now. But if she still thinks she can..." George's air of amusement faded and he declared solemnly, "I'd rather leave of my own free will, wouldn't you?"

Fred nodded slightly, nevertheless unsettled. It wasn't that he wasn't determined, if it came down to it, to leave school with George; but he didn't want to see George further abused by Umbridge's regime.

George shifted then. "The joke stuff ... d'you think it's ready to sell?"

"Yeah. Enough to start, anyway," Fred concluded. Half of their stock was safely stowed in their room at home; what they currently were working on was scattered at the base of their Hogwarts trunks. It would be simple enough to pack them up ... Umbridge was watching all modes of communication out of the school, but they had that Hogsmede trip next weekend and they could sneak them out then ... His mind was mulling over a plan now, a tentative smile quirking his lips. Yes ... it could just work ...

Suddenly eager now that he had a prank idea in place, he grinned sideways at his brother. "Forge, is it just me, or have we been a bit too lenient on our dear toadish friend lately?"

"I think you have a point there," George noted delicately. "What do you suggest, then?"

"I think..." Fred grinned broadly, "...it's about time we give her a taste of what real mayhem is like."

**·:·**

They put their plan into effect that very morning; they put together all the fireworks they had produced in the last year or so, including Lee's additions of sparklers that spelled rude words in the air. George stood back, head tilted to the side as Fred and Lee set up the last of the fireworks. He was posed as sentry, but since it was the middle of class, their clandestine setup in the middle of the hall went primarily unnoticed.

"There!" Fred arrived beside him with a huff, dusting off his hands. "That's the lot of them."

"Should we light them all at once?" Lee asked meanwhile. George looked to his brother, who rocked back on his heels as he thought.

"Might as well," Fred concurred. "All of us, on the count of three."

They drew their wands, stepping a good distance back from the display as they did. George could imagine from their fervent work that there was probably a good fifty or so firecrackers lined up there, and deemed this a good precaution.

"One..." said Fred. "Two ... three!"

Three cries of "_Incendio_!" were lost in the resulting explosion; George flinched as heat blazed by his face, the bright sparks flashing across his vision in disorienting fashion. Above the bang and crackle of noise Fred was laughing wildly; Lee seized George's arm.

"That'll give her a turn," he grinned, "c'mon, let's move!"

They fled the scene of the crime, followed by the echoing whizz and bang of their work; as they ran a confused chorus of voices filled the corridors, students spilling out of classrooms to investigate the sudden light display crossing the castle. Somehow the twins and Lee made it to the safety of a secret door hidden behind a tapestry and behind it fell in a heap, shaking with stifled laughter.

"Oh God," said Fred, rolling off of a slightly crushed George and clutching his stomach. "I can't wait ... to see her face..."

"Should be a memorable first day as Head," Lee agreed. "Here. I'll time how long it takes for her to 'control' the situation."

"Don't bet on anything soon," George said breathlessly, sitting up and clutching a stitch in his side. "If she tries to vanish them, they'll multiply by ten."

"And that bit of brilliant spellwork was yours, wasn't it?" Lee approved. George grinned unabashedly as outside the tapestry someone started screaming girlishly.

"Ah, the sweet sound of success," Fred said dreamily. "I'd say Hogwarts is _ours _a little while longer."

**·:·**

Fred and George were hailed as heroes to the Gryffindors, and the memory of their enchanted fireworks display lingered on as the days slipped into Easter break. Professor Umbridge, even if she didn't have any proof of their involvement, seemed to be keeping an unusually close watch on the twins. Every evening, they endured the usual detention until their fists bled; even if the rest of the DA had been relinquished the night before holidays, their torture continued. Perhaps what unnerved her most of all was the fact that they didn't complain – nary a word passed between them from the time they entered her office to the moment the door closed again in their wake.

The reason for their silence was mainly this genius tactic of George's; he had convinced Fred that there was no real reason to disrupt the leisure time of the other students, but to endure a week of silence on the rebellion front just to increase apprehensions. Then, as soon as term commenced, they would strike, and this time there was no holding back. They didn't care about rules or consequences any more; without saying anything, they both knew it was only a matter of time now. George's days were numbered.

But the fact that they did not openly confront Umbridge didn't mean that they weren't working as hard as ever; oh, no. Morning, afternoon, and late evening the twins could be found poring over messily scrawled notes or preparing clandestine recipes in a steaming cauldron. The mass-production of everything from their favoured Skiving Snackboxes to the old favourite Canary Creams nearly took the entire break, and twice Fred 'borrowed' Harry's Invisibility Cloak to carry the finished products down to Hogsmede, where he shipped them out to the premises they'd secured in Diagon Alley.

Needless to say, they were quite pleased with their efforts, and Fred was convinced they had enough stock to last them until summer, if they had to leave this very minute.

The last Sunday evening of Easter break, Fred had run off again to take the last of the Snackboxes down to Hogsmede, and George was sitting up in the common room awaiting his return. He tugged absently at the sleeves of his jumper – Fred's this time, just in case he had to cover for him – and listened with one ear to the murmur of conversation around him.

A shuffling from near the portrait hole drew his attention and George rose, wondering if Fred was back already; then, however, he recognized the whispering voices.

"It's absolutely ridiculous, Harry! You'll risk getting expelled," Hermione hissed in warning.

"There's got to be some way," Harry protested, with an air of forced casualness. "I thought I'd just –"

"Haven't you been paying any attention all year?" Hermione cut him off brusquely. "You know Umbridge's watching all the Floo connections and searching the owls coming in and out –"

"What's going on?" George asked, approaching the trio. Hermione fell abruptly silent and he could almost sense them exchanging guilty glances.

"Harry wanted to talk with Sirius, that's all," Ron said at last. "C'mon."

"Wait," George said as they began to move off; he tilted his head, a thoughtful expression coming to his face. "Wait a sec. We might be able to help you there."

The three fifth years stopped short. "...How?" Harry asked, now curious.

"Well," George grinned, "surely you've noticed we've been particularly quiet on the mayhem front since the break."

"Yeah," said Ron. "So?"

"So," George went on confidingly, "that changes tomorrow morning. Fred and I have been planning something, as it were, and if we time things just right we could make you a decent diversion."

The portrait hole creaked next to them, and Fred arrived breathlessly next to his twin. "Mischief managed," he offered in a bare whisper, before turning on the fifth years. "What's this? Am I interrupting something here?"

George reiterated his plan, and Fred at once backed his claims; George knew from the shift in his tone alone that Fred was in full deviousness.

Hermione cut in exasperatedly, "None of this changes the fact that nothing gets in or out of the castle without her and her mongers finding out –"

"No," Harry said quietly. "That's not true ... she told me herself the only fire she's not got under watch is her own."

"You wouldn't!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I'll use Sirius's knife to get in," Harry continued. "I won't be long ... ten, fifteen minutes, I'd guess."

"Excellent," Fred said, rubbing his hands together. "We'll stir up enough trouble to draw her and the ol' Squad far away from her office – right after classes, there should be enough crowds and confusion then. Fifteen, twenty minutes, easy. For you, our friend."

"Thanks," said Harry, while Ron offered a suspicious, "What are you planning anyway?"

"You'll see, little brother," Fred said brightly, tugging George's sleeve so that he understood it was time to leave. Inclining his head, George finished for his twin, "...At least, you will if you come along to Gregory the Smarmy's corridor about five o'clock tomorrow."

**·:·**

The twins made it to the safety of their upstairs dormitory before Hermione saw fit to put a stopper in their plotting. Still grinning in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat, Fred trooped toward his trunk and foraged out the materials they had planned for tomorrow's little spectacle. Tossing aside handfuls of rumpled clothes, he uncovered at last the false bottom; he dug beneath it with his fingers and hefted it out, gingerly, his grin broadening to catch sight of the last of their products in vibrant packaging.

They had been still testing these back in November, when ... distractions had put their creation on hold for countless months. Now – finally – Professor Umbridge would learn that there are some things you just don't mess with.

Through his thoughts, Fred distantly registered the silence in the dormitory; he shifted up on his knees, peering about, and caught sight of his brother lingering by the open window. By the dusky light, George was unsmiling, his brow leaned against the glass.

Fred frowned as well; he could sense unspoken the unease in his silence, and without a second thought abandoned his trunk and rose. Quietly he padded nearer and stood at George's shoulder.

His query, too, was voiceless, yet a moment later George shifted slightly, now trailing his fingertips over the windowsill as if to ingrain the touch in his mind. "This is it, Fred," he mumbled.

Fred tilted his head slightly. Tomorrow, he reckoned, they'd both charge headfirst out of the complacency they'd built up over the past weeks. And Professor Umbridge was likely going to want to murder them. It was for the best, they had agreed, to take their leave now, together, and go out with a bang.

"You know there's no point in staying any longer," Fred said flatly, sitting down on the ledge beside him.

"Yeah. I know."

George had turned away so that Fred couldn't read his expression in the deep shadows; instead, he leaned his head back against the window. "Listen," Fred tried again. "You know ... we both know what she'd do, if we stay –"

"I said, I know, Fred," George repeated, the slightest edge to his tone. It was gone when he went on, a silent moment later, "I ... I'm scared, 's all."

Fred stared at the outline of his twin's face in the dark. "Of what?"

George drew a shaky breath. "Of what will happen to us. What if it doesn't work out, Fred ... what'd we do then? ... God, what's Mum gonna think when she finds out –"

"Of course it's going to work, George," Fred said vehemently. "We didn't put years of work into the shop for nothing, you hear? Mum'll deal – and if not, there's nothing she can do to bloody stop us."

George didn't answer immediately. With a sigh Fred turned away; then, struck by a sudden idea, he fumbled for his wand. In his mind he conjured an image of their premises, as he had seen it last, what couldn't have been more than a few days ago. He had been dropping off a few of their more volatile products at the time among the numerous labelled orange boxes stashed in the back. He remembered wandering between the dark shelves – empty as of yet, but already he was taking a silent tally in his mind, knowing in a second this aisle would be for the fireworks, the next over the joke candies ... The windows at the front of the store were wide, illuminating dust motes trickling through the air, and Fred knew they would be perfect for showcasing their work once it was finished.

And, allowing that promise to fill him, Fred closed his eyes and breathed the two words. "Expecto Patronum."

All at once a soft glow flowed from the tip of his wand, tendrils of light weaving together to shape some mythical form as it glided in the air in front of him. Fred's breath caught in his chest as he watched the ethereal creature swoop about the dormitory, in its path leaving a feeble glow of light and a less tangible warmth that seemed to emanate from within him. Fred didn't look sideways to gauge George's reaction; yet, somehow shaking himself from his stupor, he directed the Patronus back toward them.

It complied, flying on wings of sweeping mist; then as gently as a falling feather it folded its wings and landed on the sill between them. Fred recognized in somewhat of a shock the proud, angular arches of the bird's head and piqued beak; the sweep of feathers gleaming silver in the darkness; the eyes that flashed with so much strength as it perched tall at his side.

Grinning, Fred looked up at his brother; in the rippling light he read wonder in George's wide eyes and tilted expression. "It's gonna be all right, George," he whispered, at the back of his mind noticing that, for the first time in long months, he could speak that claim with utter confidence. As though bolstered by his fierce honesty, George straightened.

With an echoing small smile, George raised his wand and reiterated the spell. In the pause the great bird at Fred's side opened its beak in a soundless cry and took flight; its light meandered around the room until it was joined by a second stream of light – fainter at first – but steadily strengthening until there were two birds casting their glow across the chamber. Each beat of wide-swept wings made the stretch of light shimmer and pool around them as the birds wheeled and dove around one another in a silent, mystical dance. And they watched, awed into the same silence.

"It's gonna be all right," George repeated at last, never turning away from the spectral show of light in front of them. He smiled faintly, leaning against the window beside Fred. "Thank you," he whispered, for what, Fred wasn't sure and he wasn't about to ask now.

Instead he watched the eagle and the crane dance fearlessly into the oncoming night, their glow hardly diminished by the dark that swallowed up everything around them.

_To be continued..._

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Please review!


	27. Now

**In George's Eyes**

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

**10/04/11 -** Well, this is it: the epilogue. But wait ... it's not the real epilogue! What am I on about? Well ... you'll just have to read to the end to see, won't you? A while earlier I ran a poll on my profile for people's preferred ending, and I was pleasantly surprised that the winner was exactly what I wanted to write, too. :D So, without further ado on my part...

* * *

**Epilogue – Now**

_"You were holding to me_

_Like a someone broken_

_And I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now…_

_We would stand in the wind_

_We were free like water_

_Flowing down_

_Under the warmth of the sun_

_Now it's cold and we're scared_

_And we've both been shaken_

_Look at us_

_Man, this doesn't need to be the end."_

_-Ever the Same, Rob Thomas_

**·:·**

"Fred. _Fred_, wake up."

Blearily Fred opened his eyes; someone was whispering urgently, prodding his shoulder. "'s too early," he slurred, burrowing back into his pillow. The figure overhead, undeterred, only poked his shoulder harder.

"_Ow_ – fine, I'm up," Fred grumped, lifting himself up on his elbows and blinking in the pale dawn light accentuating the darkened dormitory. George stood over his bed, his face half-aglow; there was something of a different light gleaming in his eyes. Fred only yawned, "You realize it's Monday morning?"

George tilted his head, his frown almost a reprimand. "I have to show you something," was his only reply. He thrust a bundle of clothing at his twin and waited imploringly until Fred had staggered to his feet, making an effort to pull on his robes. Then, now semi-awake, yawning grandly and his robes rumbled, Fred trooped in George's footsteps from the sluggish dormitory.

Downstairs, an eerie silence captivated the Gryffindor common room; embers flickered and glowed in the grate, the orange light dancing across the chamber. Any evidence of the numerous and lengthy Easter Break parties had been obliterated by the house elves' meticulous handiwork, leaving the room readied for the last stretch of term until summer.

"So, what's this you have to show me?" Fred asked. George didn't answer him, crossing the familiar path to the portrait hole. Out the passage, tiptoeing past the Fat Lady's dozing portrait, and down the deserted corridors – Fred, his mind now wide awake and racing wonderingly, maintained a sharp eye on his brother's back. George's course along the hallways was sure, however, and Fred, looking around in the silence, couldn't help but reminisce at how but a few days ago their fireworks had lit up these halls, sparking in dazzling sound and fury every few meters. If only they hadn't used their whole stock earlier, Fred mused with faint regret. What a beautiful send-off they would have made ...

With that thought Fred recalled this would be maybe the last time he could call the old castle home; no, he and George had been prepared to leave for weeks now, and they had given Harry their word. One last morning indulging in the memories was all they could hope to hold on to.

Before long, they had descended the marble staircase into the Entrance Hall. Here Fred lingered a moment, longingly looking toward the nearly deserted Great Hall; his stomach rumbled. Halfway across the Hall already, George faltered and glanced over his shoulder; the silent question passed between them and Fred, ceding, jogged to catch up.

George shoved the main doors open and the two trooped out into the dazzling sunlight; Fred squinted, raising a hand to his brow, whereas George turned his head instinctively toward the light, drinking it in as hungrily as a sunflower. Casting along the rich green lawns, Fred registered that winter was finally nothing more than a dark memory, reminiscent in the last resilient patches of slush and dampness that seeped into their shoes as they sloshed across the grass, George in the lead again. They passed by the glassy surface of the sapphire lake, but George made no sign to have registered it; his pace was steady toward the line of dark trees on the horizon. Nestled alongside the Forbidden Forest, a plume of smoke curled upward from Hagrid's hut; but George stopped short before they reached the cabin, instead purposefully stepping between the trees.

Something like fear rose up in Fred's consciousness, but he overruled it in faith of George's judgment. Ahead of him, his twin's pace had slowed, arms outstretched as he manoeuvred, brushing aside spindly branches. Fred, trailing him, cleared his throat.

"Er –"

"In a minute." George waved him off and resumed his course, a slight furrow to his brow.

Then, without warning, he stopped short; Fred, glancing around, registered no difference in the thick growth around them or the crackle of pine needles beneath his feet. Unnerved, he edged a bit closer to his brother as George reached within his robes, withdrawing a piece of toast. He whistled softly.

For a moment, nothing happened; then with a suddenness that made the hairs on his neck stand on end Fred heard the snapping of twigs in front of them. He squinted into the darkness, one hand held readied to grab his wand if the interloper made to attack; the other clenched tightly to George's arm.

"There you are," George said amiably. "Kept you waiting, didn't I? You can blame this right lump who wouldn't get out of bed."

"Hey..." Fred protested, his complaint gone ignored by George, who shrugged off his hand and stepped forward, offering out the treat. Fred, hesitating a moment, trailed after him. Grinning now, George raised his other hand as though stroking an invisible beast.

"A Thestral, right?" Fred hardly dared breathe.

George nodded slightly, shifting sideways. "Teyla, this is Fred. Fred ... Teyla. Be patient with him," he continued to the invisible creature, "he's a bit slow sometimes."

Fred rolled his eyes.

"C'mon," George said. "She won't bite." He held out his hand and Fred, uncertainly, took it; he allowed George to guide his hand forward through air until, very suddenly, he hit upon leathery flesh.

George heard Fred's sharp intake of breath, for he grinned wryly. "See? Not as crazy as I look, am I?" His grip on Fred's wrist, he trailed his twin's hand downward, along what must have been the Thestral's neck. Teyla's muscles shivered with excitement beneath his fingertips.

"Can you see her?" George asked.

Fred snorted, about to tell him that was a stupid question – but George cut him off.

"Not with your eyes, stupid. Close your eyes," he added as an afterthought. "See her with your hands. Slowly, now, or you'll startle her."

Fred nodded at his instructions, closing his eyes. Without the foolery of his vision, then, the leathery feel of the Thestral in front of him was vividly real; he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, the faintest shiver of her flank with every breath. He shifted along her neck, tracing the bony contours of her elongated head, her warm nostrils, her flicking ears. Fred's heart was pounding and he knew his gestures were fumbling and awkward, yet Teyla was perfectly docile with George beside him stroking her forehead. And then with a sudden rush of feeling Fred understood: this was George's world that he laid out so plainly for him now, the uncertainty and tentative coming to terms with what could never be seen.

Fred, reopening his eyes, glanced over at his twin. There was the slightest focused crease to his brow, but George was also smiling, absently rubbing between Teyla's ears. Beneath Fred's touch the Thestral shook her head faintly, snorting. Smiling as well, Fred turned away.

"You're right, Forge ... she _is_ beautiful..."

George smirked at him, "Of course I am." He turned back to Teyla and his gaze became distant. "Fred," he said suddenly. "We should ride."

Fred glanced sharply at him. "_What_?"

But a familiar determined sort of mischief had come into George's eyes as he shifted over, trailing his hand along Teyla's neck until he was standing at her bony withers. Then, both hands pressed to her back, he hefted himself upward. Fred instinctively moved to stand behind him, but George – after a bit of fumbling – now of his own accord perched tall atop Teyla's back, his knees squeezed in front of her wing joints, his hands wrapped around the complacent Thestral's neck.

George peered down at him. "C'mon, Fred. It'll be fun."

Fred hesitated; George, still grinning, proffered his hand. Warily Fred regarded him on his invisible mount, a small part of his mind warning him that this had to be ridiculously dangerous. And yet ...

Ceding, he hoisted himself up onto the Thestral's back behind his brother. Leathery wings caught under his legs and beneath him poked what felt like every bone of Teyla's spine. Uneasily Fred eyed the ground shifting beneath him, churned with the hoof marks of their invisible ride. This was all a bit too surreal even for him, and swallowing hard he implored his brother, "You're sure this is safe?"

Without turning around, George barked a laugh. "Never thought I'd hear those words from you. But don't worry ... I've done this before."

Fred eyed the back of his head incredulously. "When -?"

At that moment Teyla set off at an ambling walk and what had previously been a somewhat stable perch sloped and rocked with her movement. Fred barely stifled a surprised cry and leaned forward to keep his balance, catching his arms around his twin. Branches whipped by on either side as Teyla accelerated, plunging deeper into the thick forest; Fred's eyes were streaming and he squinted, his face half-pressed against his twin's shoulder. With a mind of her own, Teyla abandoned the clear-cut trails and plunged deep into the knotted undergrowth, the twins bouncing along on her back with the crash of her echoing hoof-beats filling their ears.

Through the trees up ahead, Fred apperceived a log leaned across the brush; yet Teyla charged directly onward in oblivion. They wouldn't be able to stop in time – Fred's grip tightened on George and he tensed, about to shout some warning.

The obstacle rushed toward them in his vision; but a split-second before they collided head-on with the log, Teyla's front hooves left the ground. Fred's breath seized in his chest as for a suspended moment the three of them were airborne: then with a crackle of leaves Teyla's hooves beat the ground once more as she charged onward.

" – _flying_!" George shouted, his voice lost in the rush of wind. But Fred grinned, the same wild excitement making his heart pound. It wasn't even comparable to riding a broomstick – but George's companion wasn't half bad, once Fred got past the bruises on his tailbone.

Teyla whinnied loudly as if in echo to their sentiments; and surrendering to the wild, free joy of their flight they soared together through the trees, an echo of their laughter carrying on the wind.

**·:·**

"So!" Professor Umbridge said with a sniff of triumph, drawing herself up on the top step of the marble staircase. Down below, students shuffled to get out of the way, forming a solemn ring around the Entrance Hall. "You found it amusing, did you, to turn an upstairs corridor into a swamp?"

"Pretty amusing, yeah," Fred concurred lightly, tilting his head up at her without the slightest trace of fear. At his side George stared out over the crowd, similarly impassive.

There was a scuffle of motion and the Inquisitorial Squad in their silver badges had clustered below Umbridge, their faces shining with eagerness and their wands raised. At their head, Draco Malfoy sneered; Fred raised an eyebrow slightly at him and then smirked.

A wheezing figure appeared next to Umbridge; Filch held out a roll of parchment, his red face nevertheless gleaming with an ugly sort of joy. "I got the form, Headmistress! I've got the form and the whips waiting ... oh, let me do it now..."

Umbridge smiled coldly, taking the parchment without looking at him. "You two," she savoured her words, "are about to learn what happens to troublemakers in my school."

Fred considered her words briefly. "You know what, George," he said conversationally, turning to his twin, "I don't think we are. I think we've outgrown a full-time education, don't you?"

George nodded pensively. "Yeah, I've been feeling that way myself."

"Time to test our talents in the real world, d'you reckon?" Fred pressed.

They might have decided the outcome weeks ago; but when George turned to him and grinned, Fred thought for an instant he recognized the utter faith in his eyes. "I think, Fred, we shall."

Professor Umbridge's face had been steadily turning an interesting shade of magenta as they amiably debated in front of her; now she took a step forward, one chubby finger raised menacingly. "_Stop them -_!"

The Inquisitorial Squad clumsily started forward, but at the same time Fred and George raised their wands and chorused, "_Accio_ brooms!"

"You've nowhere to run," snarled Montague, withdrawing his wand. The Slytherins fanned out around them, the crowd backing away uneasily from the brewing confrontation. Still grinning, Fred kept one ear out for the sound of the approaching brooms as he stepped forward, George moving to guard his back.

"Who said –"

"– we were running?"

Draco Malfoy's sneer broadened as the Slytherins closed in; Fred could tell by their gleaming expressions that they thought they'd won already, all of them ganged up on the blind one and his brother.

Well, unfortunately for them, Fred had one last ace up his sleeve.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" they bellowed as one; at once a silvery mist fell over the opposing sides and Fred grinned maliciously to see the eagle diving with claws raked forward straight at Malfoy's face. The Slytherins panicked; under the Patronuses' shroud they could barely tell friend from foe and one spell shot off randomly, the red light ricocheting off the floor and striking a nearby suit of armour with a clamour. Laughing, Fred urged his Patronus on into the fray, unconsciously aware that at his back George was doing the same.

A fist grabbed his sleeve; Fred understood the signal and, wheeling about, caught sight of two Cleansweeps breaking through the mist and jerking to a halt in front of them with a faint jingle. He grabbed the first broom and tossed it to George; then catching the other he swung one leg over it and kicked off, instantly shooting ten feet above the crowd, accompanied by the faint jingle of bells attached to the handle.

He looked across the chamber: at George hovering beside him, panting slightly from the fray, the students milling in confusion down below. Umbridge stood out like a sore thumb in garish pink, shouting to her struggling minions; but Fred knew they had won, there was nothing else that hag could do to them. He grinned down at the student population, unable to resist one last jab.

"Anyone who fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, need only come along to number ninety-three, Diagon alley - Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, our new premises!"

"Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat," George added, twisting his head in Umbridge's direction.

Satisfied that they had done their part for Hogwarts, Fred shot one last look around the grand Hall and grinned at Peeves the Poltergeist floating at their level. "Give her hell from us, Peeves!" he shouted before he wheeled about and flew through the open doors, George on his heels.

The subsequent roaring cheer followed them down the sweeping green lawns and out and over the gate tipped with winged boars; the twins didn't slow down and didn't look back as Hogwarts faded into a dark blot on the horizon behind them. For a long while they didn't have any destination in mind, flying through the low-lying clouds and enjoying the pure rush of adrenaline of defying the world. George kept pace with his brother evenly, guided by the faint jingling of Fred's broom, smiling as he tilted his head into the breeze.

"Well..." Fred said at last, breaking the silence. George, stirred from his reverie, grinned sideways at him.

"Well. It all is well, isn't it?"

And Fred, grinning in agreement, reached for George's sleeve as he now angled their broomsticks toward Diagon Alley, London and the new future on the horizon.

_The End._

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...And all was well.

Yes, I couldn't resist slipping that in. And so there you have it: an alternate 'ending' for the twins instead of - what seemed to me, anyway - a cruel writing-off in the last book. Perhaps there was much turmoil and psychological torture along the way, but I still consider this story to be about healing and hope: that they will continue to survive with what life's given them and live it to the absolute fullest.

Old fans will notice the first half of the epilogue here is similar, and that Charlie's bell idea that previously helped George play Quidditch again still came into effect. :D

Now, I made most of my remarks about my 2011 rewrite in the first chapter, but again, if you want to read the old version, it can be found on my livejournal (jedigoat) in its complete form. This story has greatly changed along the way of my editing and I really do feel that it's a better, more complete work, now that I have a bit more experience with writing. :) I would love any and all feedback on this story, and once again I must say a huge and heartfelt "Thank you!" to all my readers out there and those who stuck with me through my admittedly slower updates. You guys helped this story become what it is today!

Now, as you're wondering what I meant by epilogue above ... There is no sequel to **In George's Eyes** in my current plans, but I have written an epilogue of sorts about Fred and George setting up their shop, if you are interested: **Of Dawn and Darkness**, which can of course be found on my profile. It follows almost immediately after the updated version's conclusion, but still fits cohesively enough with the old version.

Lastly, I just want to conclude with a few of my current Fred and George-related endeavors: you probably know by now I'm working on Fanfic100, with 100 stories featuring the twins - so if you'd like to take a look at some of my short stories featuring our beloved troublemakers, or if you like FredxHermione, you'll find them on my profile. :D Also, my newest project is another attempt at rectifying DH: **For Want of an Ear**, which involves George and Hermione travelling back in time to GoF, and trying not to butcher the timeline too much along the way (yeah, right...) and promises to be an exciting ride. And finally, for those with odd tastes like myself, there's **Hoshi no Hikari, **which is about the adventures of amateur Soul Reaper Fred. :D

So ... I think this Author's Note is long enough, so I'll leave you with a final note of thanks, and until next time!

-Jedi Goat, 2011


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